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PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


OTHER BOOKS BY 
ETHEL HUESTON 


PRUDENCE OF THE PARSONAGE 
PRUDENCE SAYS SO 
PRUDENCE’S SISTERS 
LEAVE IT TO DORIS 
EVE TO THE RESCUE 


LITTLE LADY COMB 








The climax of her loneliness 
















Prudence’s Daughter 


By 


ETHEL KlUESTON 


Illustrated by 
E. C. CASWELL 


m 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 



Copyright, 1924 

By The Bobrs-Merrill Company 


?Z^ 

IV- 


Printed in the United States of America 


PRESS OF 

BRAUNWORTH & CO. 
BOOK MANUFACTURERS 
BROOKLYN, N. Y. 


APR 30 ’24 


C\ 


C1A7922Q4 ', 

'\A4 


CONTENTS 


PART ONE 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I Jerry Was Not Deceived.11 

II The Going of Jerry.33 

III Jerry Is Free.52 

IV When Jerry Gave Up.83 

V Jerry Meets a Genius.104 

VI Jerry Adrift. 118 

VII And Jerry Saw Prudence.137 

PART TWO 

I The Coming of Jerry.150 

II Jerry Comes into Her Own.164 

III The Summer Passes.178 

IV And Jerry Disposes.196 

V Jerry's Mother .207 

VI Jerry Calls for Help.215 

VII In Jerry’s Citadel.235 

VIII Between Friends .258 

IX A Little for Remembrance.272 

X Jerry's Plaything.290 

XI How Jerry Loved.300 

XII Of Dreams Come True.302 























PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 



Prudence’s Daughter 

PART ONE 

CHAPTER I 

JERRY WAS NOT DECEIVED 

I T WAS lacking but twenty minutes of mid¬ 
night. At the top of four staggeringly steep 
flights of dusty stairs, the studio apartment of 
Carter Blake was ringing with unaccustomed 
blaze and blare of wild hilarity, supplanting the 
dull drab of steady slavery at the easel for the 
first time in nearly two years. For this occasion, 
the easel had been shoved away into the oblivion 
of a remote corner, while canvases, brushes and 
paints were painstakingly pushed out of sight be¬ 
hind the clumsy old piano and the high gilded 
mirror, or beneath the wide couch which served 
as a bed for the artist, a throne for his models 
and to fill up a wide gap in the great bare room 
besides. 


ii 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


At twenty minutes to twelve the gaiety was at 
its height. 

On a stool in the center of the room a small 
phonograph shrilled out the melody of the latest 
tango, and three couples danced intermittently 
about it, stopping at will to light a cigarette, to 
drain a glass from the tray on the table, or to join 
for a moment in the conversation that went on 
among the others scattered about the room. 

Among the cushions on the wide couch, her 
feet crossed beneath her, in a startling gown of 
orange and black, a girl with vividly reddened 
hair, with crimson cheeks and impeccably painted 
lips, leaned drowsily against the shoulder of 
Korzky, the young Russian sculptor, her slender 
profile lifted to his face. In her slim nervous 
fingers was a cigarette, which she held first to his 
lips, then to her own, with easy impartiality. 

On the arm of the one great upholstered chair 
the room afforded sat Nina Barriman in a gown 
of silver lace, one silver slippered foot swinging 
restlessly at her side, the other propped securely 
high on the knee of a man in the chair beneath 


12 


JERRY WAS NOT DECEIVED 


her, of whom was nothing visible but knees and 
feet. 

Grouped critically before a picture on the wall 
in a comer were three men, overbearingly lordly 
in their admiration, overbearingly generous in 
their disapproval. One, with bristling stiff Van¬ 
dyke, took a pencil from his pocket and measured 
the throat and cheek of the painted girl, to prove 
his contention as to physical inaccuracy. 

In the window-seat, alone, strumming soft 
southern melodies on a banjo, in discordant de¬ 
fiance of the blatant jazz, half reclining upon the 
cushions, lay Mary Donya, a glass on the window¬ 
sill at her side, a cigarette dropping futilely away 
to ashes in a tray, while Aimee Glorian perched 
like a pretty, angelic imp on the heavy, old-fash¬ 
ioned table against the wall, her fair face se¬ 
raphic in its gentle sweetness, swaying to the 
rhythmic motion of the cocktail shaker, of which 
she had proclaimed herself officiating goddess. 

At twenty minutes to midnight, a yellow taxi 
stopped before the entrance, four flights below, 
and Rhoda La Faye, in a golden cloak, her golden 
13 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


hair an aureole in the reflection of the bright 
street-lights, sprang out at the instant of its stop¬ 
ping, her sharp eyes on the registering meter as 
she said: 

“One seventy! Right!” 

She hurriedly pressed two one-dollar bills into 
the hand of the driver. 

“Come, Jerry!” she cried, with the quickness 
that characterized her every word and motion, 
and thrust out a nervous, hurrying hand from the 
folds of her cloak. Fairy Geraldine Harmer 
clasped it eagerly, almost shyly, as she followed 
breathlessly up the four long flights of stairs to 
Garter Blake’s studio on the top floor. 

Rhoda lifted the knocker, let it fall heavily, 
and waiting for no response, opened the door and 
ran in, drawing Jerry with her. They were 
greeted with a burst of merry laughter, noisy 
welcome. Bertrande Rochester, abandoning the 
discussion before the picture, joined them im¬ 
mediately, catching Rhoda about the waist with 
a deft arm, and whirling her unceremoniously 
into the dance around the phonograph. 

14 


JERRY WAS NOT DECEIVED 


For a moment, Jerry stood alone, slender and 
lovely, with glowing, questioning eyes, and quick¬ 
ening pulses. 

“It’s Jerry!—Jerry Harmer!” Rhoda tossed 
lightly over her shoulder, interrupted in what she 
would say by Bertrande Rochester, who kissed 
her as they danced. “Awfully nice little kid!— 
From Iowa!—We went to school together—until 
I got fired!” 

Aimee Glorian, of the angelic sweetness, slipped 
at once from the table, and drew away Jerry’s 
cloak, which she piled with the others on a chest 
near the door. 

“What will you have?” She turned hospitably 
to the table, with its brave display of bottles and 
glasses,—a nondescript lot, those last, of every 
conceivable size and shape, and including three 
cracked teacups. “These are orange blossoms,— 
I am making them for myself, I can’t stand 
Scotch,—plenty for you, too, if you like. Duane 
Allerton is mixing high-balls in the kitchen. And 
there’s apricot brandy with cream if you want to 
st‘art easy. Duane, bring the high-balls, the girls 
15 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


are here!” she called, prettily imperative. Then 
to Jerry again, “You’d better stick to orange 
blossoms with me,—three parts gin, to a whiff of 
orange,—and you can love your wickedest enemy. 
Carter Blake has gone down for champagne. 
He’ll be back in a minute. What-” 

“I—I hardly know.” Jerry flushed, stam¬ 
mered a little, in some confusion. 

Aimee swept her a quick appraising look, and 
smiled in friendly fashion. 

“I see,” she said. “You want apricot brandy 
with cream, and mostly cream, don’t you?” 

“Who called for a high-ball?” 

Duane Allerton came in from the kitchen, 
laughing, his cuffs pushed high, a bottle in one 
hand, a medicine glass in the other. “Mixed, or 
straight ?” 

Aimee laughed softly, slipping her hand cozily 
into the curve of Jerry’s pretty, bare, white arm. 

“Brandy weak, oh, awfully weak,” she told 
him. “She hadn’t registered when I called you. 
This is Rhoda La Faye’s little protegee from the 
Middle West,—Jerry Harmer. Isn’t she beauti- 
16 



JERRY WAS NOT DECEIVED 


ful, Duane? Miss Harmer, this is Duane Aller- 
ton. He’s nice enough, but stupid. He’s in 
business, isn’t that disgusting? Duane, since 
Francy isn’t here to-night, why don’t you take 
Jerry under your wing and make a little love to 
her? You’re so good at love-making. Like his 
looks, Jerry? Don’t be bashful. If you see any 
one you like better, just say so. You’re company, 
so you can take your choice.” 

“Oh, no,—really—I think—” 

“Well, I think myself you’re getting the pick 
of the party,” Aimee agreed pleasantly. “Try 
him out, anyhow. If you don’t like his method, 
bring him back and I’ll give you Billy Sparr. 
And welcome. He does nothing but stand over 
there and measure chins and ankles with a pencil. 
Now show her a good time, Duaney. Give her 
brandy, and keep it weak. She hasn’t the slight¬ 
est rudiments of a real thirst.” 

Aimee touched Duane’s arm warningly, ca¬ 
ressed Jerry with a light fleeting gesture, and 
turned away to reach for a cigarette. 

Jerry lifted her blue, bright, happy eyes and 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


looked at Duane Allerton. With that look, she 
forgot the great smoke-clouded room. She for¬ 
got the strange effrontery and the flagrant inti¬ 
macy of the looks, the words, the attitudes, of 
those about her. She gazed into Duane Aller- 
ton’s eyes, and a great happiness swelled in her 
gentle breast. 

He took her hands, both hands, smiled at her, 
seeming in that smile to draw her physically, inti¬ 
mately, into the affectionate warmth of his 
charming camaraderie. 

‘‘You beautiful thing,” he whispered. 

Jerry’s heart sang within her. 

He put his arm about her, and they danced 
twice across the room. Not one word could 
Jerry speak. Twice she lifted her dark misty 
lashes, and lowered them quickly, thrilled with 
the breathless pleasure she felt in his touch, 
in the light of his eyes intent on her lovely 
face. 

As they came up to the door on the third round, 
he guided her neatly into the small kitchen,—a 
scant and impoverished relation to the kitchens 
18 


JERRY WAS NOT DECEIVED 


Jerry had known,—and came to a stop before the 
bottles on the rickety table. 

“You can’t have a real good time when you 
are thirsty. Aimee said apricot brandy,—it’s 
trash. It takes hours to get happy on it—and 
then you’re not. I know what you want.” 

He filled a small glass for her, a large coffee 
cup for himself. Jerry sipped at it daintily, not 
liking it, barely able to repress a shudder of dis¬ 
taste. But under the warmth of his eyes, she 
steeled herself to spartan resolution, and drained 
it to the last drop. And rejoiced that she did so, 
because he smiled at her, gladly, as he tossed off 
his own. 

He put the glasses back on the table again, 
took her hands in his and glowed upon her. 

“You are beautiful, you are perfectly beauti¬ 
ful,” he said. His voice was low-pitched, caress¬ 
ing, his eyes very direct and very earnest. He lit 
a cigarette and gave it to Jerry, lit another for 
himself. 

Jerry had smoked before, in college,—for fun, 
—with the girls of her sorority, behind stuffed 
19 


PRUDENCE'S DAUGHTER 


keyholes and carefully blanketed windows. That 
was mischief. This was another matter. But 
she took the cigarette when he gave it, tugged at 
it determinedly but with distaste, and was 
ashamed because she got smoke in her eyes, and 
because bits of tobacco came out between her 
lips. 

She wished he had not thought of smoking. 
It seemed such idle waste to use those tender 
fingers of his for holding cigarettes. She liked 
that intimate, boyish way he had of catching her 
hands in both of his when he said, “You beautiful 
thing.” 

He said it then, very softly, through lacy clouds 
of smoke that swam between their faces, his gray 
eyes looking deep into hers of brilliant blue, his 
fingers touching, very gently, a delicate fold of 
flame-colored velvet in her gown. 

“Is—is it your studio?” she asked, suddenly 
embarrassed because she said nothing. 

“Your voice is just like music,” he told her, 
and the earnestness of his voice was almost like 
a sadness. But he smiled immediately. “Lord, 


20 


JERRY WAS NOT DECEIVED 


no! I wouldn’t have it. Looks like a bam to 
me. I hardly know the chap. Some artist. 
Carter Blake his name is,—nice fellow, he seems, 
too. They just asked me to come along, and so I 
did.” 

“ You seem so much at home—the way you go 
from room to room—I thought perhaps you lived 
here.” 

Duane smiled his pleasure. He liked that type. 
Ingenuous, artless,—he knew what unerring 
pains, what constant alertness, it entailed for a 
girl to retain that pretty assumption of artless 
innocence. He admired one who could do it, 
one who would take the trouble. It was the type 
that most intrigued him. 

“You are adorable,” he said, and then, smiling, 
his arm about her, he drew her into the dance 
once more and back into the studio. 

In the doorway they encountered Carter Blake, 
hatless, his bottle of champagne wrapped in a 
handkerchief, just coming back. 

“Come on, quick,” he called to them, without 
waiting for introduction. “You’re the girl from 


21 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Iowa, aren’t you? We want you to launch the 
contract. Here’s the champagne. It’ll be mid¬ 
night in a minute.” 

The phonograph was turned off, and the others 
straggled over toward the easel in the corner. 
Carter Blake pulled it about until it faced them 
and they saw a printed contract securely fastened 
upon it with brass thumb-tacks. The girls ran 
quickly about the studio to fetch the flowers 
from every vase and jar, piling them in a rosy 
heap beneath the precious bit of paper on the 
easel. 

“To launch the contract?” Jerry was greatly 
puzzled. 

“It’s his five-year contract with International ,” 
explained Aimee, who stood near her. “Picture 
a month for five years! That’s what the party 
is for, you know, to celebrate the contract. They 
only signed this morning.” 

They pressed more closely about the easel, 
Jerry standing out before them all, the bottle of 
champagne in her hand. 

“Now, just a minute,” Carter Blake ordered 


22 


JERRY WAS NOT DECEIVED 


briskly. ‘Til fire the revolver on the stroke of 
twelve. Then you souse the contract—” 

“Souse it?” Jerry was deq>ly anxious, not 
understanding. 

“For luck. Didn't you ever see a ship 
launched ? It's a contract party, as I told you,” 
explained Rhoda. “How is she to smash the 
bottle, Carter?” 

Some one hastily brought an electric iron from 
the kitchen, and Duane held it for her. 

He smiled at her anxious uncertainty. “Be 
careful! Hold the bottle away from you when 
you break the neck off, don’t soil your gown! 
Then just throw it over the contract.” 

“Be ready now,” cautioned Carter. “It lacks 
but a minute.” 

The clock on the mantel chimed the hour, and 
on the last stroke, Carter fired his revolver into 
the air. 

“Quick,” whispered Duane in her ear. 

With a strong sure blow, Jerry struck the neck 
from the bottle and flung a stream of the golden 
fragrant liquor over the contract on the easel. 

23 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


The others applauded gaily, clapping their 
hands, crowding about Carter to shake his hand 
in congratulation. The girls kissed him, many 
times, telling him how wonderful it was, and how 
happy they were. 

When Jerry was drawn up to him in the pres¬ 
sure about her, “Oh, it is just wonderful,” she 
breathed, ecstatically, still but half comprehend¬ 
ing what it was all about. But because the others 
did, and because he seemed to expect it, and Jerry 
would not for the world have hurt his feelings, 
she kissed him, too. 

Carter Blake, seeing her in that moment for 
the first time, amazed and delighted with her 
loveliness, put both arms about her and kissed 
her again and again, until Duane pulled him 
away, reminding him that he had signed but one 
contract and was taking the privileges of a score! 

Then they had supper, a generous, conglomer¬ 
ate supper, erratic in its variety, sandwiches, Rus¬ 
sian soups, strange things en casserole, quaint for¬ 
eign pastries, Italian ices, and cheeses from every 
land. Duane and Jerry sat together, very close, 
24 


JERRY WAS NOT DECEIVED 


very quiet, in the wide window-seat, looking out 
over the East River to the misty midnight towers 
of New York on the other side. The others 
talked of art, of colors, schools and contracts. 
But Jerry and Duane in the window heard not a 
word that was spoken, and hardly talked at all. 

It cut into a particularly long and sober silence 
between them when she said, “Are you an artist ?” 

Duane laughed. “Oh, lord, no. Ym on Wall 
Street. And heaven knows it’s where I should 
be any place but! They’re fleecing me right and 
left” 

“Who are?” Jerry was almost resentful in his 
behalf. 

“Heaven knows. Somebody. At least, it 
would seem so. I’m getting the ragged edge of 
it on all ends. Ym not slide enough. I never 
catch on to what’s going on, until it’s gone. And 
then it’s too late. Don’t make me talk about 
business. I’d rather go on thinking how beauti¬ 
ful you are.” 

After a while some one started the phonograph 
once more, and they danced. And he took her 
^5 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


again to the kitchen, where she had a tiny high¬ 
ball, which she barely touched to her lips, and he 
had a very large one, and another, and then an¬ 
other. And finally, laughing at what he called 
her intemperate temperance, he drained her glass 
as well. 

They were a long time in the kitchen, laughing 
for no apparent reason, looking at each other 
deeply, with pleased and intimate understanding, 
while Duane drank and smoked. When they 
went back to the studio, the lights were dimmer, 
the music softer, the voices more subdued. 

On the couch among the cushions the girl in 
orange and black was sleeping soundly, her bare 
arm lying across the knees of Korzky, who 
slouched at her side, a glass in his hand, a bottle 
on the floor at his feet. In the window-seat 
Nina Barriman had turned a rude back on all the 
room and was drawing grotesque pictures in the 
dust on the window-pane with the tip of her 
finger, wetted in a glass of wine. 

Aimee, with the face of angel sweetness, danc¬ 
ing by the door as they came in, released the tip 
26 


JERRY WAS NOT DECEIVED 


of the bearded man’s ear from between her lips 
to call to them: 

“Do you like him, Jerry? Pretty well satis¬ 
fied?” 

And Rhoda paused in the midst of a particu¬ 
larly daring rendition of the tango to wave a 
friendly hand to her. 

Jerry flushed deeply, with the unconscious, in¬ 
stinctive recoil of her innocence and her inexperi¬ 
ence. Her eyes clouded a little. But she smiled 
forgivingly. 

“Rhoda’s really a very nice girl,” she said 
apologetically to Duane. “They are all nice, of 
course, I know they are. But I have known 
Rhoda a long time, and she is quite,—oh, really, 
she is quite proper. Of course, Iowa would be 
shocked!” 

Duane drew her closer in his arm, so that her 
breath, with the slight scent of her first high-ball, 
touched his face. He did not leave her. The 
others came and went at will, flirted here, and 
loitered there, dancing, lounging in the great 
chair, or on the couch, jostling the girl in orange 
27 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


and black in her heavy slumber, wandering in and 
out of the studio as they felt inclined. But 
Duane held his place at Jerry’s side, kept her 
slender hands within his hands, touched the vel¬ 
vety folds of the seductive gown with tender 
fingers. And Jerry remained blind to the care¬ 
less familiarity of it all, deaf to its blatant noise, 
seeing his warm eyes alone, hearing only his 
gentle voice, feeling but the caressiveness of his 
wandering touch. 

At three o’clock in the morning they went 
again to the kitchen for something to drink. His 
eyes were heavy now, his voice a little thick. He 
had been drinking more than Jerry realized, for 
she, having barely moistened her lips with the 
potent liquor, was still alert with the glamour of 
youth, and excitement, and romance, her natural 
brilliance only slightly fanned, not feverishly in¬ 
flamed, by the seductive drink. Duane filled the 
small glass for her again, but as she put out a re¬ 
luctant, unrefnsing hand to take it from him, 
he withdrew it suddenly and placed both bottle 
and glass on the table behind him. 

28 


JERRY WAS NOT DECEIVED 


“Jerry,” he whispered, his low voice a little 
strained, “you beautiful thing!” 

Irresistibly stirred by her beauty, emboldened 
by the extent of his drinking, his hand audacious¬ 
ly left her fingers, crept up toward her shoulder, 
pressing in suddenly upon the soft flesh beneath 
her arm where the flame-colored gown drooped 
away. And then, with increasing eagerness, he 
bent over her and pressed his hot lips upon the 
tender softness of her slender throat, and again, 
before she could move to repel him, upon her 
innocent and trusting lips. Jerry lay limp in his 
arms for a moment, and then went suddenly rigid, 
tearing herself away as though he had struck 
her. 

Humiliation, mingled rage and scorn blazed in 
her bitter and disillusioned eyes. 

“Oh, that!” she cried, her voice, though harsh 
with the pain of her accusation, still carefully 
controlled that none in the room outside might 
hear, “That! It’s all you think of—any of you— 
It's—” 

A wave of shame, of disappointment, swept 
29 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


over her. Tears came to her eyes. “And I 
thought—I was fool enough to think—” 

“Wh-what did you th-think?” he asked en¬ 
couragingly, rather pleased than otherwise by the 
initial denial which would give her final yielding 
only a greater charm. “Wh-what did you 
th-think, you beautiful th-thing?” 

“I thought it was falling in love—like Pru¬ 
dence.” She confessed humbly, crushed by the 
completeness of her disillusionment. 

His infatuation fanned by the frankness of her 
admission, he reached out a hand to her again, a 
hand that trembled a little. 

“Love!” he repeated. “It is love. This is 
what love is.” 

“Don’t touch me, you horrible—” Words 
failed to express the extent of her scorn. 
“There’s no such thing! I was a fool to have 
expected it.” 

He was surprised that she waited for no 
further argument, but whirled about, an outraged, 
lovely figure in the seductive flame-colored gown, 
and ran from the room. At the door, though, 
30 


JERRY WAS NOT DECEIVED 


she paused, turned back. He had reached for 
the glass upon the table, had it within his grasp. 

She spoke to herself, not to him. “And to 
think I was looking forward to it all my life— 
sure of it—and now—” 

“Sure of wh-what? Expected wh-what? ,, He 
delayed to take the glass. 

“That it would come to me the way it came to 
—Prudence.” 

Then she went out. Duane waited a moment. 
She did not come back. He filled his glass and 
drained it. Then he straightened his collar, un¬ 
steadily, and went into the studio to find her. 
She was not there. He wandered about the 
room, aimlessly for a while, waiting for her. She 
did not come. He crossed to where Rhoda, in¬ 
different, misty-eyed, sat with Carter Blake in 
the window-seat. 

“Where is she?” he asked. “Your little friend 
from Iowa?” 

Rhoda lifted her head drowsily from Carter’s 
shoulder. “Went home,” she said, and her head 
drooped again. 


31 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“She said she had a headache or something,” 
Carter explained. “Got her cloak and went out 
like a flash. Korzky’s gone down to put her in 
a taxi.” 

Duane was irritated. The little quitter! And 
after the way she had encouraged him all evening. 
He held it a manifest unfairness to end a game so 
pleasant in such silly childish manner. He went 
out and down the stairs, hoping to overtake her. 
On the second landing he met Korzky, coming up. 

“Has she gone? I was going to take her 
home,” he explained lamely. 

“Said she was feeling rotten,” Korzky told 
him. “I fancy she was requiring a shock ab¬ 
sorber for her morals. They don’t abandon their 
conscience-stays in such a hurry, these middle 
westerners. Take them off one at a time, you 
might say. Beautiful thing, though, isn’t she?” 


CHAPTER II 


THE GOING OF JERRY 



T THE tender age of eight years, Fairy Ger- 


JL\ aldine Harmer was deposited in one of the 
forty seats devoted to the primary department of 
one of the public schools of Des Moines, Iowa,— 
a wide-eyed and wondering martyr, along with 
thirty-nine other wide-eyed and wondering 
martyrs, upon the altar of education. 

“And what is your name, my dear?” quesr- 
tioned a well-meaning teacher with a kindly, al¬ 
though stereotyped smile, gazing down into the 
depths of the solemn blue eyes. 

“Fairy Harmer.” The voice was soft but 
confident. Fairy Geraldine was not a timid 
child. 

A wave of muffled giggling swept through the 
ranks of the thirty-nine. 

“Beg pardon, dear,— what?” 

“Fairy Harmer,—Fairy Geraldine Harmer,” 


33 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


said Prudence’s daughter firmly, although hurt, 
cut to the quick, in this, her first encounter with 
the thoughtless cruelty of childhood. 

A painful flush suffused the fair soft face as 
the laughter swept the serried seats again. 

The small face, barely visible above her plate, 
as they sat at dinner that night, was pale with 
the first great conviction of her life. She looked 
at her father, looked again to her mother. 

“I want another name,” she said, in the tone of 
one long accustomed to the receiving that comes 
fast on the heels of the asking. 

“Will you take it now, or wait until you get 
married?” queried her father facetiously. 

Prudence was never facetious at the expense of 
a troubled daughter. 

“Why, sweetness?” she questioned gently. 
“Why?” 

“The teacher said, 'What is your name ?’ and I 
said, 'Fairy Harmer.’ ” The childish bosom rose 
with the weight of indignation it had borne 
throughout the bitter day. “I didn’t blame them 
for laughing,” she went on in a tone of dispas- 
34 


THE GOING OF JERRY 


sionate justice. “I would have laughed, too, if 
it had been anybody else’s name.” 

Her parents digested this in sympathetic silence. 

“And when we had recess,” the wounded voice 
went on, “the boys said, ‘Fly away, Fairy, ’cause 
fairies have wings.’ It is a crazy name, mother,” 
4 she finished with vast conclusiveness. 

Prudence was the soul of gentle sympathy, but 
what could one do? Her baby had been christ¬ 
ened in a thoughtless hour for Fairy, the deeply- 
loved sister. 

“It might hurt her feelings, sweetness, if we 
should call you something else,” she pleaded. 

Fairy Geraldine said no more. But she was 
not dissuaded. She merely waited until the 
propitious moment to take the bull by the horns. 
When Aunt Fairy came to Des Moines for the 
next annual visit, a wheedlesome niece, Fairy 
Geraldine, sat in the lap of the lovely auntie who 
had no baby of her own, caressed her with tender 
dimpled fingers, adored her in pretty childish 
gurglings, and when Aunt Fairy was reduced to 
the point of abject worship, she whispered softly: 
35 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Auntie, dear, sweet auntie, would it hurt your 
feelings if we call me something else besides 
Fairy?—I think you’re the loveliest auntie that 
ever was, but it is a crazy name, and they laugh 
at it.” 

“I’ve laughed at it myself a good many times,” 
agreed Aunt Fairy amiably. “I don’t blame you 
a bit for changing it. Your uncle says he wouldn’t 
call a nice dog ‘Fairy.’ Change it, by all means, 
my dear. Anything from Fay to Florietta is bet¬ 
ter than Fairy.” 

The “Geraldine” that had been christened 
neatly in between the Fairy and Harmer obvious¬ 
ly suited her purpose to perfection and was sol¬ 
emnly agreed upon and pressed into tardy serv¬ 
ice. 

And in time Geraldine became Jerry, and little 
Jerry Harmer smiled forgiveness upon the relent¬ 
ing of an unkind fate. It was difficult at first,— 
but the small Jerry was a child of deep purpose 
and strong conviction. 

Every spoken “Fairy” was softly but firmly 
corrected. “You mean, Jerry.” And in a sur- 

36 


THE GOING OF JERRY 


prisingly short time, Fairy was forgotten and 
Jerry held the day. 

Jerry’s attitude toward life in general was 
much like that,—what she liked, she adored, what 
she disliked, must be changed as quickly as pos¬ 
sible. Until it could be changed, she endured it 
with spartan resolution. 

When Jerry was twenty years old, having been 
graduated from the state university, where she 
had acquired fair honors in things scholastic, un¬ 
rivaled ones in things social, she cast about in her 
truanting thoughts for a legitimate avenue of ac¬ 
tion for those boundless effervescent spirits of 
hers. 

She was a long time making up her mind, there 
were so many places one might go, so many 
things one might do. 

“I think perhaps I’d better go to New York 
and study art,” she said. But long before she 
said it, Jerry had quite decided that she would 
go. 

Prudence, with a great sinking in her breast, 
agreed by all means that she should certainly do 

37 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


that very thing. So much being settled, Jerry 
went on to discuss her plans, and to air her views 
of life in general. 

“It isn’t that I resent your authority, not in 
the least,” she assured them. “But I want to be 
thrown on my own, you know,—I want to be 
free.” 

She crossed the room to the golden cage where 
a golden canary sang blithely in the sunshine. She 
opened the door. Upon the instant, the bird 
leaped out into the brightness of the room, and 
circled once about it, with a brave flashing of its 
yellow wings. 

“Like that,” Jerry said. “He wants to be free.” 

The bird flew contentedly back into its golden 
cage. 

Then Jerrold, the father of Jerry, walked 
slowly across to the cage, his hand outstretched 
to close the tiny door. But before he could lay 
his finger upon it the flashing bit of gold leaped 
out into the freedom of the room, and then back 
at once into the familiar confines of the cage, still 
with his sharp eyes on Jerrold’s hand, to make a 
38 


THE GOING OF JERRY 


dash for freedom at his slightest movement 
toward that door. Again and again he reached 
toward it, and each time the bird leaped out to 
freedom. And each time returned quickly to 
the spacious cage. 

“It isn’t freedom itself that he wants,” said 
Jerry’s father gravely. “He doesn’t know what 
freedom is. He likes the cage much better than 
the open spaces, but he hates that closed door. 
He is glad to come back to the cage, but he wants 
to think he is free. Is it the same with you, 
Jerry?” 

“You can be free here, Jerry, if that’s all you 
want,” Prudence put in quickly. “Do what you 
wish, go where you wish, think what—” 

Jerry shook her lovely head, smiling. “Per¬ 
haps you do not do it on purpose,” she said. 
“But you are a closed door, mother, and you 
can’t help it. Prudence either by name or nature 
is a restraint,—no fault of yours, you under¬ 
stand.” 

Jerry was vastly pleased with her decision to 
study art. Art seemed of all things in the world 
39 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


the most glamourous avenue to Life. She had al¬ 
ways taken a pleasant interest in pictures, and in 
college had been quite a favorite in the Art De¬ 
partment, where her work both in water colors 
and in oils, with somewhat of judicious oversight 
by a friendly instructor in the department, had 
received warm praise. 

Perhaps, however, she was a little troubled in 
the secret places of her own heart, for she re¬ 
verted to the subject many times every day, al¬ 
though it was already fully settled she should go. 

“One has to do something, you know,” she 
said. “One isn’t born just for the sake of living 
and dying and getting it over with. One has to 
do something!” 

“Of course!” Prudence was very positive in 
her agreement. 

“Give you a job in the plant any time you say,” 
her father offered quickly, who as president of 
one of the largest motor corporations in the Mid¬ 
dle West was in a position to indulge in such 
largess if he chose. 

“You don’t understand, father,” she said 


40 


THE GOING OF JERRY 


patiently. “Taking a job from a good worker 
who needs it to give to a poor one who does not 
need it, will never solve any labor questions. It 
isn’t a matter of physical labor, you know. It’s 
adding to the general richness of the world,—it’s 
putting something of yourself into circulation.” 

“Don’t get you.” Jerrold was frankly puzzled. 

“I—I think I know what you mean,” Prudence 
said pleasantly. 

“Oh, no, you don’t, mother,” Jerry contradicted 
promptly, with laughing tender eyes,—not rudely. 
Jerry was obliged to contradict her mother many, 
many times, but it was always with laughing ten¬ 
derness that she did it. “You just say so because 
you think it is your duty, having me for a 
daughter, to try to account for my foolishness,” 

Prudence blushed. 

“Anyhow we have all agreed that I must go to 
New York to study art.” 

“I never agreed to any such thing,” said Jer¬ 
rold flatly. 

“I—I did,” said Prudence weakly. 

Jerry laughed softly at her mother. “You 
4i 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


didn’t either,” she denied tenderly. “You’re just 
siding with me to make father ashamed of him¬ 
self. You think it makes me less ridiculous when 
you agree with me.” 

Prudence blushed again. 

Prudence, at forty-four, with a daughter 
twenty years old, was but a deepened, sweetened, 
softened molding of the Prudence who, at nine¬ 
teen, had taken such gay and masterful charge of 
the parsonage, and the house-full of younger 
girls, and her gentle father. So slender she was 
now as to appear almost frail, and she was very 
pale, with but the slightest hint of rose in her 
lips, the lips that had the old whimsical, humorous 
droop of her girlhood days. In spite of the deli¬ 
cate frailty of her face and figure, and the pallor 
of her creamy skin, Prudence did not look her 
years, nor did her appearance in any way suggest 
the dignity of a grown-up daughter to her credit, 
even with the humorous depth of understanding 
and the warmth of sympathy that showed in 
every word and gesture. Prudence at any age 
would be ageless, old and young, with the youth 
42 


THE GOING OF JERRY 


that has seen both heights and depths, and trem¬ 
bled with great emotions, the age that defies time 
with a dauntless bravado and a glad acceptance. 

To Prudence sometimes, looking backward, it 
seemed a long way she had come from the cares 
and the responsibilities of that simple parsonage 
life. Times had changed, conditions, interests 
had changed. It seemed to Prudence that she 
alone remained steadfast and the same. Her 
father had died ten years before, and after that, 
Aunt Grace, with Carol, and Carol’s baby, con¬ 
tinued on in the home they had chosen in Mount 
Mark, remaining there to be near Lark and Jim, 
on their rich, far-reaching farm. 

Aunt Grace had lingered but a few years 
longer, and then slipped on into the shadows, hav¬ 
ing left the full of her modest means to Carol, the 
only one of the parsonage girls to be left alone 
and without resources. Fairy and Gene, the col¬ 
lege lover who became her husband, had suffered 
a long series of financial reverses in their effort 
to forge to the front, but finally, after so many 
years, were comfortably settled in Chicago, seem- 
43 


PRUDENCE'S DAUGHTER 


ing at last to have exhausted their store of ill 
fortune. 

The youngest of the sisters, Constance, who 
had astounded them all by abandoning her dreams 
of literary fame to marry her prince among cow¬ 
boys, Martin Ingram, had never regretted her 
judgment. Martin’s vast and barren Arizona 
acres had been found to over-lay an inexhaustible 
treasure house of oil, and Connie and her hus¬ 
band with their two small children were now liv¬ 
ing in affluence, and better still, in matchless do¬ 
mestic bliss, in Englewood, one of the most 
charming suburbs of New York. 

Jerrold was consoling himself with the knowl¬ 
edge that this level-headed and serene young 
auntie, supported by an imperturbable husband, 
would be at hand to see to wilful Jerry on her 
arrival in the terrible city. 

“We must write to Connie at once,” he said 
complacently. 

Jerry was quick to protest. “Now, father, 
please! Is that your idea of freedom? Why, if 
I go to Englewood to settle down with Aunt 


44 


THE GOING OF JERRY 


Connie I might as well move into a parsonage and 
be done with it! Freedom! Of course I shall 
visit them very often, but I shall not live with 
them, by any means. And I think we’d better not 
tell her I am coming until I am all nicely settled 
and running on my own. Then she can’t talk me 
out of it, and all those Starr girls are such good 
talkers.” 

To Jerrold’s surprise, Prudence agreed to this 
drastic inhibition. 

“I must be independent, you see,” Jerry ex¬ 
plained. 

“Of course,” assented Prudence. 

“I think I shall write to Rhoda La Faye, and 
ask her to get me a little studio apartment near 
her.” 

“Rhoda,—Rhoda La Faye—who’s that?” Jer- 
rold wanted to know. 

“Oh, she’s a girl I knew in college.” 

“Rhoda— See here, Jerry, you don’t mean 
that girl who—” 

“Rhoda was a very nice girl if she was ex¬ 
pelled,” Jerry said. “She—she was a little too— 
45 


PRUDENCE'S DAUGHTER 


well, emancipated for Iowa, perhaps, but there 
was nothing in the least bad about her. She was 
a very talented girl, and now she has a studio in 
New York, and has illustrations in the very best 
magazines, and everything. She can help me a 
great deal, I should imagine." 

“Well, I am certainly not in favor—" Jerrold 
had assumed his most paternally dictatorial voice. 

“I am," interrupted Prudence quickly. “I am 
most heartily in favor of it. Rhoda was not at 
all an evil-minded person, just mischievous, as I 
remember it, and her experience will be of great 
value to Jerry." 

“What was she fired for, anyhow?" Jerrold 
wanted to know, moodily, feeling the handicap of 
his position between the two of them. 

“Oh, a perfectly ridiculous thing," explained 
Jerry lightly. “She did some illustrations in the 
college magazine, and they were a little—ad¬ 
vanced, you might say, and Rhoda said they were 
artistic, and she wouldn’t apologize, and a few 
other things like that. But, father, no one could 
sav Rhoda La Faye was not a genius !" 

46 


THE GOING OF JERRY 


“And of course,” Prudence went on, as though 
it were all her own idea to begin with, “no one 
could expect an artistic, gifted, temperamental 
girl like that to plod along here in Iowa like the 
ordinary daughters of farmers and ministers and 
merchants! And she will be very helpful to 
Jerry, I am sure.” 

Jerry looked at her mother keenly, frowning, 
with questioning eyes. When she was alone with 
her father she said confidentially: 

“I'd better keep my eye on mother. She's had 
too much experience. After bringing up that 
whole crowd in the parsonage, how can one lone 
daughter hope to be a match for her ? I seem to 
be getting my own way, but I think she’s working 
me, for all that.” 

The letter from Rhoda La Faye, in response to 
Jerry’s query, was warmly satisfying in every 
particular. She said she would be only too happy 
to meet Jerry, to assist her in every possible way, 
and happily she knew just the place for her, right 
down in Greenwich Village on Reilly’s Alley with 
Mimi Delaney, a particular friend of Rhoda’s 
47 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


own, who was letting rooms to students. She 
promised to meet Jerry at the station, and to be 
entirely her slave and handmaiden until she was 
properly domiciled in the big city. And begged 
her please to excuse the haste of her note, as she 
was very busy. 

Jerrold was not pleased,—he did not like the 
idea of the Village, he disapproved of Rhoda La 
Faye, he thought Jerry’s plan to study art was 
“all piffle.” And when he was alone with Pru¬ 
dence at night, and grieving over her restlessness, 
her sleepless hours, he expressed himself very 
forcibly on the subject of daughters, 

“It’s selfishness,” he said. “Jerry’s place is 
here with you. She has no business going off to 
New York or any place else. A daughter’s place 
is with her mother.” 

“Why, Jerrold? Why should we expect 
her to live our life, just because she is our 
daughter?” 

“Why? Because she is our daughter, that’s 
why! Didn’t we bring her into the world ? Didn’t 
we raise her? Didn’t—” 

48 


THE GOING OF JERRY 


“Yes, but we did it to please ourselves, didn’t 
we? Jerry certainly didn’t have much to say 
about it.” 

“A child,” he said didactically, “owes its par¬ 
ents everything in the world, owes it—” 

“Love,” said Prudence softly. “Just love. 
Nothing else. And that’s enough, Jerrold, if 
we’ve done our part.” 

The great lovely house was vastly confused in 
those days, with the packing of Jerry’s clothes, 
and books, and the thousand pretty intimate things 
a young student of art would be sure to want in a 
strange big city. And there were dressmakers 
thrumming steadily away on their machines, turn¬ 
ing out new gowns, new suits, new wraps, for 
Jerry to wear in her pursuit of Art. 

“Um, I think you’d better draw it in more 
about the hips,” Jerry’s critical young voice 
floated out to her father, where he sat staring at 
the newspaper that he did not see. They were 
going to miss Jerry! After college, he had 
thought it was all over, that Jerry’s future was 
ended with her education, and they were all 
49 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


to settle down to the joy of home, and having a 
daughter in it. 

Jerrold sighed. 

“Yes, a little more, don’t you think so, mother? 
I really am rather properly built, you know, and 
I’ve no reason to be ashamed of it. Is that bet¬ 
ter, mother? You know the men do like—” 

“I thought you were going to New York to 
study art!” her father broke in almost peevishly. 

“Um, I am,” assented Jerry absently. “But 
mother and I know, whether you do or not, that 
the more you know about men, the faster you 
progress in art.” 

“Yes, of course,” said Prudence. 

That night, when Jerry had gone up-stairs, 
Prudence sat on the arm of her husband’s chair, 
slipping lower and lower beside him, until her 
face was buried against his shoulder. 

“Well, you were all for her going, so I suppose 
it’s settled,” he said dully. 

“Yes, it’s settled.” Prudence’s voice was 
muffled. 

“Well, you want her to go, don’t you?” 

50 


THE GOING OF JERRY 


“Yes, of course, I want her to go.” There 
was a sob in Prudence’s throat 

“Well, then I suppose you’re satisfied.” 

“Y-yes, I’m satisfied.” Prudence’s shoulders 
rose and fell, heavily, and she pressed her face 
more deeply against his shoulder. 

Then Jerrold drew her quickly about on his 
knees, until she was huddled in his arms, heart¬ 
broken, sobbing, like a child, although a woman 
past forty with a grown-up daughter going away. 

“Don’t cry, Prudence,” he said, holding her 
very close to him, his own eyes wet. 

Presently she lifted her face, stained with tears, 
and laughed at her foolishness, and patted away 
her tears with a filmy bit of lace and soft linen 
ridiculously serving as a handkerchief. 

After that, there was nothing for Jerrold to do 
but procure the tickets for Jerry, look after the 
checking of her baggage, and see that she had 
money enough for her needs. And nothing for 
Prudence to do but take her daughter in her arms 
—and let her go. 


CHAPTER III 


JERRY IS FREE 

R HODA LA FAYE met Jerry at Grand 
Central Station in New York as she had 
promised. Rhoda surprised Jerry, pleased her 
greatly,—she seemed quite different from the old 
Rhoda of college days,—so brisk, so tailored, so 
assertive. She caught Jerry’s hands in hers, 
kissed her warmly on both cheeks, exclaimed over 
her bright beauty, all in one breath, while with 
Jerry’s light bag in her hand she was drawing her 
swiftly through the great station and out to a 
waiting taxi. Immediately they were off—some¬ 
where—anywhere—Jerry neither knew nor cared. 

She had been in New York before with her 
father and Prudence. Then, with a soft leisure¬ 
liness impervious to the stirring pressure about 
them, they had followed a red-capped porter to 
a taxi,—a porter who had been obliged to return 
many times to find them in the midst of the con¬ 
fusion and the crowd,—and had settled them- 
52 


JERRY IS FREE 


selves in a comfortable suite of rooms in a spa¬ 
cious hotel to enjoy a pleasant, nicely-ordered 
orgy of shopping, theaters and drives. Another 
time they were met at the station by Aunt Connie 
herself, in her car, with her chauffeur in sober 
livery, and were driven swiftly out to her great 
home in Englewood, to enjoy the solicitous minis¬ 
trations of her efficient maids. 

That was Prudence’s way of doing New York. 
This was different. This was freedom. Jerry 
loved it,—loved the quick, confident hustling of 
this tall unhesitating girl of her own age,—a girl 
who alone and independently had taken New York 
by the horns and forced it into subjection. 

“Listen, Angel-face,” the indomitable creature 
was saying, “will you forgive me if I desert you 
to-night? I have heaps to do. I have to put 
backgrounds in three pictures that I promised 
word-of-honor would be ready at ten to-morrow. 
Besides, I need the money. I shall have to sit up 
all night to get them done, anyhow.” 

“Oh, I am so sorry! I am afraid my coming 
to-day has bothered you, and—” 

53 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Oh, please don’t say that. I love having yon 
here. It only happens this way once in a while,— 
sometimes for weeks I haven’t a thing to do,— 
and correspondingly little to eat,” she confided, 
with a light bit of laughter. “But Theresa Brady 
will look out for you. She has a room at Mimi 
Delaney’s, where you are to live. And she said 
she would take you out for dinner, and help you 
get settled and everything. She is a marvelous 
girl—Theresa Brady—the most talented thing 
you ever saw. You will adore her.” 

And before Rhoda had finished her eulogy of 
Theresa Brady, the taxi whirled up in a short, 
bare, grimy street and stopped before a little, 
squat, twisted house that had one time done 
service as a rich man’s stable. Rhoda, with 
Jerry’s bag, was out in the street with the stop¬ 
ping of the car, and after a sharp glance at the 
recording meter, tossed a bill to the driver, and 
held out a nervous, hurrying hand to Jerry. 

In response to her impatient pressure on the 
button, the door was opened after a little by a 
lovely rose-and-cream-colored woman, in a trail- 
54 


JERRY IS FREE 


ing rose-and-cream-colored gown, who smiled 
radiantly upon Jerry, her white hand, flaunting a 
brave display of flashing rings and tinkling thin 
silver bracelets, outstretched in friendly welcome. 

“The little girl from Iowa!” she said, and her 
voice was one of musical vibrations. 

“Hello, Mimi!” said Rhoda, her brisk tone 
seeming almost harsh in contrast. “Theresa here ? 
Listen, Mimi! This is Miss Harmer, Mrs. De¬ 
laney. Mrs. Delaney is your hostess, Jerry, your 
landlady if you wish, and also I hope, your friend. 
I have to fly,—honestly, it is a shame, but it’s a 
rush order. You know how these things are, 
Mimi.” She put her arm about Jerry regretfully. 
“It is a crime, I know, to leave you like this, 
Angel-face, but you don’t know what it is to work 
for your bread and butter.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind a bit,” said Jerry, bravely 
trying to hide her sense of loneliness and disap¬ 
pointment. “I shall write some letters, and un¬ 
pack my bag. I don’t mind at all.” 

Rhoda squeezed her gratefully. “You are a 
darling! Mimi will take good care of you. But 
55 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


let me warn you! Keep all your lovers out of 
her sight. She’s a beau-snatcher! She took two 
from me, and three from Theresa, and heaven 
only knows how many from other poor working 
girls! Call Theresa, will you, Mimi? She is 
going to take her out for dinner.” 

Rhoda dropped a snatchy kiss somewhere in 
the direction of Jerry’s face, and ran away. 

Mrs. Delaney took Jerry’s bag, and led her up 
a very narrow, very dark, and very winding stair¬ 
way. 

“Rhoda says you are a plutocrat,” she said 
musically. “And so we gave you our best foot 
foremost, — second floor front. Rhoda says 
‘Piute’ is your middle name.” 

“She does me a great injustice,” said Jerry, 
smiling. 

“I think you will like this. It is quite nice and 
roomy. Remember I am your landlady, so pre¬ 
tend to be a little pleased with it anyhow, not to 
hurt my feelings.” 

Jerry could not but smile at the “roominess” 
of which she had so bravely boasted. To the 

56 



JERRY IS FREE 


vision of her generous, middle western eyes, it 
was chokingly, crampingly small, a smallness 
over-emphasized by its gaudy cretonning in vivid 
orange and black. But Jerry said nothing at all 
of that, she only smiled, and assured her silver- 
intoning hostess that she knew she was going to 
be very happy in her new home. 

“Here is your kitchenette,” explained Mimi, 
opening a door in the rear. 

“Oh, I don’t want to cook. I am going to 
study very hard. I shall take my meals out some¬ 
where.” 

“Oh, you will not like going out for breakfast, 
I am sure,” protested Mimi. “No one goes out 
for breakfast! And surely you will want your 
luncheon in, and your tea! One eats SO' little. 
But of course, you shall do just as you wish! But 
every one prefers— But you needn’t take the 
room at all, you know, Miss Harmer, unless you 
like it.” 

“Oh, I do like it, and I have taken it already. 
And now that I think of it, I am sure you are 
right, and I shall very much prefer having my 
57 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


little breakfast in. I’ll get an electric grill and a 
percolator, and then I can have parties, too.” 

“I shouldn’t wish you to take the room unless 
you like it,” said Mimi with her engaging frank¬ 
ness. “But I am glad you do like it. I need the 
money. I was quite ill last year, and have had no 
engagement for some months, and you know how 
we in the profession squander our salary when we 
are working!” She laughed excusingly for that 
particular foible of the profession. “Theresa and 
I have this house together. A maid comes in 
every morning to do the rooms. Wait till I call 
Theresa!” 

And then she swept out to the hallway, and 
called, her voice ringing like the cadences of a 
lilting song, that Miss Harmer was here, and 
Theresa should come down. 

Jerry thought she would like Theresa. She 
was tall and large, yet thin, seeming taller, larger 
and thinner in the presence of Mimi, who was 
short in stature and appeared small, though with 
a suggestive roundness both of face and figure. 
Theresa was dark, unfathomably intense, with a 
58 


JERRY IS FREE 


sort of subdued or repressed ferocity in the tones 
of her voice, the deep lines of her face, and in 
every quick, sure movement. Jerry thought she 
seemed younger than Mimi, although more quiet, 
more reserved, much colder. She looked tired. 
There were dark circles beneath her eyes, lines of 
weariness in every feature. Smudges of paint 
showed upon her rumpled smock, and her nails 
were rough and ragged, obviously bit to the quick. 
She held out her hand, a large, thin, capable hand, 
stained with ink and paint and the smoke of 
countless cigarettes. Jerry’s met it warmly. They 
smiled at each other. 

"It’s like Rhoda to dump you off in a strange 
city and wash her hands of you,” she said, and 
the friendliness of her voice as she spoke of 
Rhoda’s vagaries forbade a suspicion of malice. 
“She is working wickedly hard.” 

“Is she doing well? Does she work very 
hard?” Jerry asked, with great eagerness. 

“Um, both. She works like the devil at hack 
jobs, to get a little money ahead so she can 
study.” 


59 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“There’s no money in art, and every one knows 
it,” said Mimi, musically peevish. “Rhoda and 
Theresa,—they are both fools. I always say so. 
They should take up something new, something 
modern, something there is money! in. It’s all 
very well to talk of slaving for art,—starving for 
art, I call it.” 

Theresa laughed. “You should talk!” she said 
derisively. “I don’t see that you’ve acquired such 
a fortune behind the footlights! Not that you’re 
behind them very often, I must say.” Then, Mimi 
effectually silenced, she turned to Jerry. “You 
want to fuss up a little after your journey, I sup¬ 
pose. Come up when you are ready, will you? 
I am on the third floor at the back. Be careful 
not to stumble, it’s very dark. Will you come 
out to dinner with us, Mimi ?” 

“No, thanks, I have a date. Here are the keys, 
Miss Harmer,—this to the door down-stairs, this 
to your room. If you want anything, don’t hesi¬ 
tate to ask. Come, Theresa, let the poor child 
shake off the dust of travel.” 

They went out, smiling back at her, closing 
60 


JERRY IS FREE 


the door after them. Their voices came to her 
from the narrow hallway. 

“You look a mess/' said Mimi discontentedly, 
but still with musical resonance. “You ought to 
be ashamed of yourself.” 

“Oh, don’t bother me! I’m tired as the deuce!” 

“Why don’t you go to bed, Theresa? You’re 
such a fool to slave so. And nothing to come of 
it, either. Fame,—pouf, what’s fame? A bank- 
account is the only way to judge a talent!” 

“Who’s your date?” 

“Phil Mills. Lie down, Theresa. I’ll bring 
you a cup of tea. And for heaven’s sake, wash 
your hands. I was ashamed for her to see your 
finger-nails. You’re certainly a mess. Do lie 
down a while, you look positively yellow.” 

Their voices receded as Theresa drew herself 
wearily up the stairs, and Jerry, standing in the 
center of her tiny new home, looked about her 
with quizzical, humorous eyes, and laughed. It 
was ridiculously small, ridiculously gaudy, ridic¬ 
ulously frugal in its very flamboyance. The 
bathroom was no more than a stuffy dark closet. 

61 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


The vaunted kitchenette was a shelf, a hole in the 
wall. 

“Oh, Prudence!” laughed Jerry, thinking of 
her mother, sure she was happy, but there were 
tears in her eyes. 

She set herself briskly to unpacking her small 
bag, folding things neatly away in the small 
drawers of the chiffonier. The two photographs 
in their handsome frames, Prudence and Jerrold, 
she placed conspicuously on the dressing-table. 
And then she suddenly took up the picture of her 
mother, and looked at it intently, questioningly, 
almost passionately. She shook her head at last 
with sharp impatience, and placed it opposite that 
of her father once more. 

“I don’t get you, Prudence,” she said. 

In her intense moments, Jerry referred to her 
mother always as “Prudence,” using the word not 
so much as a name, but rather as a statement 
of principle, a code of worship, a creed of 
religion. When she said, as she did very often, 
“I do not get you, Prudence,” she meant only 
that Prudence was a depth of philosophy she 
62 


JERRY IS FREE 


could not fathom. It irritated her. If Prudence 
had been a scintillatingly brilliant, intellectual 
woman, Jerry felt she would not have minded her 
inability to reach the innermost recesses of her 
mother’s thought. Prudence was no such thing, 
Jerry knew it. 

After her unpacking, sweetened and refreshed 
with a perfumed bath in her tiny tub, she ran up 
the dark stairway to the third floor, turned back 
and tapped softly upon the door. 

“Oh, damn!” she heard, muttered fiercely, from 
within the room. And then apologetically Theresa 
called, “I spilled the ink! Come in, Miss Harmer, 
I can’t get up for a minute. The place is a mess. 
I’ve just had a scrap with Mimi, and I’m a wreck. 
She wanted to clean up before you came, and I 
wouldn’t let her, and we are both furious.” 

Theresa was down on her knees briskly mop¬ 
ping up the ink with a fresh towel. Jerry stood 
in the doorway, and looked about the room with 
eager girlish interest. If her studio down-stairs 
appeared small to her, this one she thought quite 
unendurably so. There was no rug on the floor, 

63 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


nor curtain at the window. The couch was a 
tumbled mass of blankets and wrinkled sheets 
with a box of paints and half a dozen magazines 
thrown upon it. The teacup was on the floor, 
its contents untasted. And there was a big easel 
turned to catch the best light. Theresa, just get¬ 
ting to her feet again, looked with amused eyes 
upon Jerry’s frank inspection. 

“Do—do you—” 

“Um,” Theresa nodded. “Sleep here, work 
here, eat here,—die here, too, I fancy. Haven’t 
made my bed in heaven knows when. Mimi used 
to come in to do it for me, and bothered me to 
death, so I keep the door locked on her now. If 
you hear her pounding to get in, and me shouting 
for her to go away and mind her own business, 
don’t be alarmed. It’s a frequent occurrence. 
The place is a mess, Miss Harmer. I am almost 
ashamed of it myself.” 

She swept magazines, books and paints from 
a small straight chair and shoved it hospitably 
toward Jerry. 

“Cigarette ?” 


64 


JERRY IS FREE 


“No, thanks.” 

Theresa lit one for herself nervously, tossing 
the burned match on the floor in a corner and 
tugging at the cigarette with a deep breath, almost 
gulping. She pulled off her smock. 

“Excuse me a minute, and I’ll wash my hands.” 
As she washed, and then brushed back her dark 
tousled hair, which she did not take time to comb, 
but only fastened securely with additional pins, 
and scraped the paint from her skirt, she ran 
briskly on in the quick jerky fashion that Jerry 
found so fascinating. 

“I don’t usually work like this. I’m trying to 
get it finished—want it for an exhibition. I 
think it’s rather good. The devil of it is that I 
have to dig along—for a meal ticket—while I’m 
trying to turn out something decent at the same 
time. Heaven knows I eat little enough—it 
shouldn’t be hard to earn the kind of a living I 
usually live. Do you like Italian cooking? Or 
French? There are a dozen nice little places 
within a block or two. Oh, and there’s a wild 
little Russian place,—would you prefer that?” 

65 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Oh, any place at all, I shall love any of them, 
all of them for that matter,—wherever you wish 
to go. I’m really ashamed to take you away 
from your work,—I know you are only stopping 
to please me.” 

“Oh, I dare say it’s a very good thing. Come 
to think of it, I haven’t had a real dinner in 
heaven knows when. I’m sure I’m hungry.” 

She drew a small modish hat snugly about her 
ears, swept a wave of dark powder across her 
face, touched her lips with a bit of rouge and said 
she was ready. As they made their way carefully 
down the dark and winding stairs, Mimi’s silken 
voice drifted out to them from behind a closed 
door. 

“Oh, you bad boy, I believe you’re trying to 
make love to me!” 

Theresa laughed. “Little fool,” she said. 
“Come in any time you like, day or night, you’ll 
get a dose of that from Mimi. She runs them 
in relays, like the six-day-bicycle race. Lord 
knows where she gets them—there don’t seem so 
many men to spare.” 


66 


JERRY IS FREE 


Theresa took her to a small, quiet, basement 
room, where they had a generous, quiet, Italian 
dinner. They ate in silence. Theresa was hun¬ 
gry, very tired, and Jerry was stirred and breath¬ 
less. There were others in the dining-room, 
mostly girls, smartly dressed, all thin, all weary- 
eyed, all smoking. 

“Don’t you know them?” Jerry asked. “I 
thought every one knew every one else—in the 
Village.” 

“I don’t know anybody,” said Theresa. “I 
used to be ’way up on the west side. I came down 
here to please Mimi. But I like it.” 

The days that followed were happy, dreamy, 
fascinating days for Jerry. Rhoda telephoned 
to her twice, with profuse and tender apologies 
for her neglect, and said she was coming to see 
her right away. But she did not come. She 
spent a great deal of time with Theresa, but 
Theresa was always working, always tired to dis¬ 
traction. Mimi, although she continued as 
warmly affable and friendly as at first, had little 
time or inclination for pretty young students of 
67 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


art beneath her roof. She slept until noon every 
day, had callers to tea every afternoon, and went 
out with some one every night in the week. 

Jerry made proper arrangements for her les¬ 
sons, and was enrolled in one of the beginners’ 
classes of Graves McDowell, who, having pre¬ 
viously acquired a reputation, was now eking out 
a hard existence by instilling the rudiments of 
his profession into young aspirants. Jerry at¬ 
tended his classes with a nice regularity and 
promptitude, and patiently did her utmost to fol¬ 
low his instructions. He told her kindly that she 
was doing very well indeed, let her come and go 
as she liked, and paid as little attention to her as 
possible. 

She bought an easel of the most elaborate de¬ 
sign and arranged it prettily in her small studio, 
where it quite overshadowed the modest, play¬ 
thing bits of furniture already there. And she 
painted a little every afternoon, pleasantly, com¬ 
fortably, complacently, without any of the hectic 
excitement which throbbed about her. 

Even with all that, she seemed to have a great 

68 


JERRY IS FREE 


deal of time at her disposal. On the fifth day of 
her calendar desolation, she telephoned to her 
Aunt Connie’s residence in Englewood, hoping 
to thrill the household with the news of her pres¬ 
ence, and joyously anticipating a merry week-end 
in the lovely suburb with a tender aunt, a friendly 
uncle, and two riotously frolicsome young 
cousins. She was greeted with the cold informa¬ 
tion that the entire family had gone to Europe on 
a hasty business trip, and the maid left in charge 
of the house did not know when they planned to 
return. Jerry felt quite saddened and abused. 
She was sorry she had not sent word in advance 
of her coming. She was sure Aunt Connie 
would have waited for her, would have postponed 
any kind of a business trip to Europe for the 
sake of being an oasis in the desert for “Pru¬ 
dence’s baby.” 

Left entirely to her own resources, she man¬ 
aged as best she could, reading a great deal, rid¬ 
ing solemnly about town on the buses, visiting 
the shops. It was the climax of her loneliness 
when she went to the movies, alone. Finally, on 
69 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


a happy thought suggested by a timely advertise¬ 
ment, she rented a small piano and paid a fabu¬ 
lous sum to have it raised to the studio, where she 
gave it practically her entire floor space, shoving 
the easel ignominiously into the background. 

Jerry was fond of music. She played the piano 
extremely well, and sang also with real feeling 
and much sweetness. She was beginning to 
wonder if perhaps she should not have chosen 
music in preference to painting as a career. 
There seemed to be so much of drudgery about 
art, a thing she had not before remotely suspected. 

Then, one afternoon, quite without warning, 
Rhoda La Faye ran in, caught her in both arms 
and kissed her a dozen times with fervent pro¬ 
testations of delight at seeing her. Rhoda was 
pale, with feverish spots of crinfson burning in 
her cheeks. 

“Come, get your hat,” she said brightly. “I 
have finished the picture. Devereaux says it is 
very good.” 

While she talked, she rummaged carelessly 
through the boxes and drawers of Jerry’s dress- 
70 


JERRY IS FREE 


ing-table, fishing out gloves and hats and veils, 
hurrying Jerry, and almost at once they were 
running down-stairs together, laughing, hand in 
hand. Jerry’s drooping spirits were soaring to 
the sky once more. 

In striking contrast to the confusing untidiness 
of Theresa’s studio, Jerry found Rhoda’s im¬ 
maculate to the very point of spotlessness. 

“Oh, how tidy you are!” she cried, frankly 
amazed and bewildered by the speckless orderli¬ 
ness of it. 

Rhoda laughed. “Oh, I am a perfect old 
maid, I know it, every one says so. How The¬ 
resa can find her easel in that messy place of hers, 
I can’t imagine. I couldn’t work in such a chaos. 
I never pretend to touch a brush or a pencil until 
everything is apple-pie perfection. Coffee cup 
on the table, hair pin on the floor, handkerchief 
on the mantel,—can’t do a thing, I get the willies 
right away. Look, Angel-face, do you like the 
picture?” 

She turned the easel about for Jerry to see the 
picture over which she had sweated her heart’s 
7i 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


blood. Jerry stood before it, awed, admiring. 
A curious thing it was, a narrow bit of city 
street, showing gray and grimy between high 
gray and grimy walls, with just two bits of flam¬ 
ing color,—an inch of blue sky between two 
grays, and a scarlet geranium showing bravely in 
a sixth-story window. 

“I—I think it is wonderful, Rhoda. It makes 
me feel—sorry, like crying. Does—it somehow 
makes you think of Iowa?” 

Rhoda laughed gaily. “It does not! Any¬ 
thing but!” 

“Yes, but you never met my mother, did you?” 
Jerry asked, surprisingly, and Rhoda did not 
understand. The picture was New York, plain 
and unvarnished, and Jerry was lonely for Pru¬ 
dence. 

“They say it really is good. Thank God it’s 
finished! It’s a competition you know,—a year’s 
scholarship, travel in Europe, everything! I 
wonder if Theresa is trying for it? Has she 
shown you her pictures, Jerry?” 

“Nothing,—not a thing,” said Jerry. “She 
72 


JERRY IS FREE 


never asks me so much as to look at the easel 
when she is working.” 

“Perhaps she thinks you aren’t interested. 
Ask her. She won’t mind showing you. She 
has three or four exquisite things,—not finished. 
She works on a dozen at once, as the mood 
strikes her. I can’t do that,—one thing at a 
time for me,—and I eat it, and drink it, and 
breathe it, and sleep it, until it’s over. That’s 
why I’m such a wreck.” 

While she was preparing a dainty supper on 
her electric grill, with which she could really work 
culinary wonders, she explained the frenzied sys¬ 
tem of Art she was obliged to pursue. 

“You can’t make a living at real Art until 
you’re old, and withered, and haven’t any teeth,” 
she declared. “I don’t care how good you are, 
you can’t make a, decent living! Gee, you’re 
lucky, Jerry, that you’re not obliged to earn your 
bread and butter. You can pursue art for its 
own sake, and that’s all the fun there is in it. 
Otherwise, it’s just grind, grind, grind, like 
digging ditches, or mining coal, or scrubbing 
73 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


floors. Well, anyhow, I’m one of the grinders. 
Haven’t a cent but what I earn. So I peg along 
with illustrations, advertising, anything I can get 
on the side. And when I have enough to pay the 
rent in advance a few weeks, I jump into some¬ 
thing like this, head over heels, trying to attach 
a few leaves to my wreath of laurel while I have 
a little hair to wear it on.” She gave her brisk 
bobbed head a defiant toss as she spoke. 

After their supper, deliciously cooked, charm¬ 
ingly served, they went up-town to a theater, and 
after a sandwich and hot chocolate at a comer 
drug store, returned home, luxuriously, like the 
plutocrat she insisted Jerry was, in a yellow taxi¬ 
cab. 

Jerry felt much better. For the first time, she 
was quite pleased with herself. She was glad 
she did not take Art with killing seriousness, as 
Theresa and Rhoda did. Why, those girls sat 
up, many times, night after night, until two and 
three o’clock in the morning, painting passion¬ 
ately away as though their very lives depended on 
it. There was no sense in such maddening im- 
74 


JERRY IS FREE 


moderation. Jerry was grateful for her mental 
balance, her artistic equilibrium. Pictures were 
all very well, of course, but Jerry thanked heaven 
that she had been spared a passion that would 
surely be productive of weary, dark-circled eyes, 
twitching, nervous lips, and twisting nervous 
fingers! 

She said something of that sort to Theresa one 
night. It was a night when Theresa, staggering 
away from her easel, had stumbled, fallen half- 
fainting to the floor. Mimi had pulled her up on 
the couch, given her a cup of the eternal tea, and 
then asked Jerry to sit with her a while, to keep 
her from working. Mimi herself had an engage¬ 
ment, and was just hurrying away. 

When Jerry relieved herself of her opinion on 
art in general, Theresa looked at her somberly, 
with her great, dark, weary eyes. 

“Didn’t you ever sit up all night working over 
a thing you couldn’t get just right?” she de¬ 
manded. 

“Never,” said Jerry comfortably. 

“Didn’t you ever forget to stop for your din- 

75 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


ner when you were especially interested in some¬ 
thing?” 

“Certainly not. I just put the brush down, 
and have my dinner, and then come back to it 
afterward,—or the next morning,—or whenever 
I get around to it.” 

“But sometimes you can’t come back to it,” ob¬ 
jected Theresa. “You lose the feeling when you 
stop,—you can’t come back.” 

“You just imagine that,” said Jerry pleasantly. 
“You shouldn’t let yourself get so excited over 
things. You wear yourself all out for nothing. 
I can always come back to it when I am ready.” 
And then she added, fairly, “Not, I must admit, 
that anything of mine is anything like yours or 
Rhoda’s. Far from it! But I am only a be¬ 
ginner.” 

“That’s what we all are,” said Theresa wearily. 
“Just beginners. And so we shall be all our 
lives, until we die, and afterward, too, I fancy.” 

Jerry was beginning to feel a growing im¬ 
patience with both girls, their intensity, their pas¬ 
sionate nervousness, their ardent eagerness. She 
76 


JERRY IS FREE 


found it a little tiresome. They were always 
going about, looking at pictures, each other’s, or 
somebody’s else, and then arguing desperately, 
for hours at a time, over tones, and colors, and 
values. She found herself wishing there might 
come a time, just once, when they would sit 
down, deliberately, for tea, without hovering, 
poised on the edge of the chair, ready for flight 
at the first favorable moment. 

Jerry, thanked God for moderation with in¬ 
creasing fervor day by day. She attended her 
classes with nice regularity every morning, 
worked at her easel an hour or two every after¬ 
noon, and then she manicured her nails, had a 
cup of tea and a toasted muffin and went out for 
a bus ride. 

She had been studying Art in New York for 
over six weeks when Rhoda swept in on her late 
one afternoon with the happy announcement that 
they were going to a party. 

“Carter Blake’s studio, over in Brooklyn,” she 
explained gaily. “I haven’t seen him in months. 
77 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


He just telephoned that he has signed a huge con¬ 
tract with International this very morning, and is 
having a wicked party to celebrate it. And he in¬ 
vited you, most particularly. He’s a darling 
thing, and you’ll adore him.” 

Jerry was properly thrilled, properly eager. 

“Now wear your very fluffy-ruffliest party 
clothes, so they’ll all fall in love with you,” ad¬ 
monished Rhoda. “He’s sure to have some 
awfully amusing folks, and you’ll be crazy about 
it. You get dressed and come by for me. We’ll 
be rather late. I have to finish a drawing be¬ 
fore we go. You come along about ten, and we’ll 
start as soon as I get the darned old lamp in the 
right place.” 

“The lamp? What lamp?” 

“In my drawing. It’s a background thing. 
There has to be a floor lamp, and the lady villain 
falls under it. There’s only one place in the pic¬ 
ture it can possibly go, and when I put it there, 
it throws a shadow where there should be a light. 
On the lady’s face,—see? I’ve been having the 
devil’s own time with it all day. My lamp isn’t 

78 


JERRY IS FREE 


tall enough, so I’m going to borrow one of 
Mimi’s to take along home, and perhaps it will 
go better.” 

“Why don’t you let it go until to-morrow?” 
asked Jerry. “Then you’ll be nice and fresh for 
it. If you work to-night you’ll be all tired out. 
Wait till to-morrow.” 

“Oh, but I can’t work to-morrow. We’re 
going to a party!” 

“Another party to-morrow?” 

“No, no, this one, to-night. But I can’t work 
to-morrow. I never can work the day after a 
party.” 

Jerry dismissed the subject with a shrug of 
her pretty shoulder. She had long since ceased 
trying to understand the ways of eager Rhoda 
and tired Theresa. She was going to the party, 
too, as well as Rhoda. Jerry was sure she would 
be at her class as usual the following day. 

At ten o’clock that evening, radiantly lovely in 
a stunning little flame-colored gown of chiffon 
velvet, with pearls at her throat and swinging 
beneath the cluster of curls over her ears, snugly 
79 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


bundled in a great soft cape of finest Kolinsky, 
she took a taxi to Rhoda’s studio. And opening 
the door, in response to a muffled, strangled, 
“Cm’ on in,” she stood aghast, staring, eyes 
wide, lips parted. 

Mimi’s tallest, handsomest, rosiest floor lamp 
stood conspicuously in the center of the room, 
and on a rug directly beneath it, lay Rhoda her¬ 
self, in a shimmering evening gown of gold and 
green, writhing, twisting, squirming, studying 
herself frowningly in a small hand mirror to get 
the effect of her contortions. 

As the meaning of the curious pantomime burst 
upon Jerry, she broke into peals of merry 
laughter. 

“Oh, Rhoda, you can’t imagine how ridiculous 
you look,” she cried. 

Rhoda got up. She took Jerry’s handsome 
Kolinsky wrap and tossed it across a chair. 

“You do it.” She waved a light hand toward 
the picture on her easel. “See, it’s like this. 
There’s the lady. The lamp has to be there. It 
throws her face into shadow, see? And it’s got 
80 


JERRY IS FREE 


to be clear and in a bright light. Now, how the 
dickens—” 

Under her insistence, Jerry was obliged, flame- 
colored chiffon velvet and all, to sprawl out on 
the rug on the floor,—turning this way, twisting 
that, head thrown backward, tilted higher, while 
Rhoda stood over her, scowling, criticizing, 
swearing softly beneath her breath, moving the 
lamp, now here, now there. 

And after some ten minutes of painful effort 
on the part of good-natured Jerry, she suddenly 
found that a bright shaft of light fell directly 
across the lovely face on the rug. She cried out, 
joyously, clasping her hands. 

“Hold it, hold it, Jerry!” she ordered. And 
caught up her brush to catch the light. 

For thirty minutes the room was hushed with 
a great silence, while Rhoda worked feverishly 
at the picture, and Jerry, on the floor, almost 
held her breath in her fear of spoiling the 
effect. 

Presently Rhoda clicked out the brilliant light 
beside the easel, sighing loudly in relief, and 
81 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


laughed. “Done! That’s fine! Much obliged, 
Jerry. You’re the nicest little sport I ever saw.” 

At eleven o’clock, muffled in heavy wraps, they 
were in a taxi on their way to Brooklyn. 

That was the night of Jerry’s first studio 
party, the night of Carter Blake’s “contract 
souse,” as it was affectionately recorded in the 
memories of his friends forever after. And 
that was the night when Jerry, basking warmly in 
the intoxicating intimacy of Duane Allerton’s 
friendly smile, lost the glamourous illusion of 
her girlhood’s tenderest dream. 


CHAPTER IV 


WHEN JERRY GAVE UP 

I T WAS four o’clock in the morning when 
Jerry reached her little studio apartment on 
Reilly’s Alley after Carter Blake’s hilarious “con¬ 
tract souse” in Brooklyn. She went in very slow¬ 
ly, very quietly, and placed her great fur cloak 
carefully on its hanger in the small closet. And 
then she set to work, with the minutest care and 
orderliness, piling together every penciled sketch, 
every laboriously painted tree and flower, every 
anxiously outlined face and figure that was even 
remotely connected with the pursuit of Art. 
When she had it all in one heap, she wrapped it in 
heavy paper and tied it with a stout cord. Then 
she cleaned her brushes with painful^ painstaking 
intentness, closing every bottle and tube and jar 
of paint and oil, wiping them neatly and packing 
them all in their boxes. These she put away on 
83 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


the top shelf of her closet. Last of all, she re¬ 
leased the supports of her easel and let it down, 
and then, with a great effort, managed to shove 
it into her bath closet behind the ridiculously 
small tub. 

Jerry did not know why she did these things. 
She did not even wonder why. She only knew 
that she must banish every reminder of a dead 
passion,—though really Art had never been a 
passion with her, but only a pleasant, luke-warm 
interest. When easel, sketches and paints were 
gone from her sight, she sighed a little wearily. 
She removed the flame-colored gown and went 
to bed. 

At ten o’clock the next morning she went up to 
Theresa, carrying a gaudy tray, on which she had 
arranged a charming little breakfast with that 
daintiness which characterized everything she did. 
Theresa, who kept her door forbiddingly barred 
to Mimi, and to all the world besides, after the 
first few days of their acquaintance, had given 
Jerry a duplicate key. 

“Come in whenever you like,” she said. “You 

84 


WHEN JERRY GAVE UP 


have an easy way about you that doesn’t drive 
me wild, like everybody else. But don’t knock! 
Just use the key and come right in! There’s 
never any love-making to interrupt here.” 

Theresa’s abhorrence to knocking was a frenzy 
with her. A state of nerves, Jerry called it, but 
Theresa, who never acknowledged nerves in any 
shape or form, denied it, although the slightest 
tapping startled her to such a degree that it was 
a physical pain. 

“Oh, I’m off in the clouds, and it jerks me 
down to earth so fast it makes my teeth chatter,” 
was the way she described the sensation. 

There was a huge black and white sign on her 
door which read: 

“For God’s sake, don’t knock. Cough, and 
I’ll let you in, if I want to see you.” 

Jerry, with that delicate reserve acquired in 
twenty years with Prudence, would not for the 
world have intruded so bruskly even when in¬ 
vited to do so, and was always careful to ap*- 
proach slowly, with a slight clearing of her throat, 
fumbling a bit with the key, and then pausing a 

85 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


long moment before opening the door, to give 
Theresa time to adjust herself to company, 
whether she wished for time or not. 

Theresa looked up at her entrance and nodded 
briskly in greeting. Theresa never said “good 
morning.” She held that a nod meant welcome, 
and a frown requested your absence. 

“Come and eat,” Jerry said, without preamble. 
“You’ve got on my conscience so I can’t sleep 
nights, thinking of you up here wasting away to 
a shadow, and for no good reason either. I’m 
expecting any time to find you’ve devoured your 
easel.” 

Theresa was thinner, wanner, the dark circles 
shadowing her brilliant eyes deeper and wider 
than before. She took the tray gratefully and 
balanced it on her knee. 

“You are the nicest kid, Jerry,” she said. “I 
am hungry. I wish I could mess about with a 
grill the way Rhoda does, but everything comes 
out burned, or raw, or too much salt. I haven’t 
the knack for it, and it makes me peevish anyhow. 
The sight of a pan arouses all my evil instincts. 

86 


WHEN JERRY GAVE UP 


I wish I had been born a cave man, and then I 
could eat my food raw,—just catch a bird, and 
gobble him up.” 

“You’re cave man enough,” Jerry warned her. 
“Don’t wish for any more of it. Do you notice 
an improvement in my cooking ? Rhoda has been 
showing me, and it’s really rather fun, Theresa. 
I’m glad that you don’t mind my practising on 
you.” 

They sat for a while in silence, Theresa drink¬ 
ing the hot coffee, nibbling the crisp toast, with 
warm appreciation. The silence was not unusual. 
Sometimes they sat for an hour saying not one 
word, Theresa working steadily at her easel, Jerry 
curled up comfortably on the tumbled couch. 

“I’m glad your eyes are blue,” Theresa said 
suddenly, with one of her rare smiles. “I don’t 
mind your staring about. Brown eyes give me 
the willies.” 

“Was I staring? I’m sorry.” 

Theresa looked at her curiously. In Jerry’s 
abstraction, she found food for conversation. 

“Oh, I don’t mind. I wonder if it is because 

87 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


your eyes are so blue that your lashes seem so 
cloudy, or because your lashes are so dark that 
your eyes seem so blue?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Again Theresa swept her a quick look. “Or 
perhaps it is the midnight blackness of your hair, 
and the olive cream of your skin, that effects the 
subtle combination.” 

Jerry said nothing. 

“Have a good time at the party ?” 

“Oh, yes, lovely.” 

“You’re late for your class. I’m going to re¬ 
port you to the Amalgamated Middle West. 
You’re supposed to be prompt.” 

“I’m not going to the class.” 

“Why not? Too much party?” 

“I’m not going to study Art any more.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because I can’t paint.—You knew it all the 
time, didn’t you?” 

“Yes. How did you find out ?” 

“I don’t know. It just came to me, all of a 
sudden. Why didn’t you tell me, Theresa?” 

88 


WHEN JERRY GAVE UP 


“You do very nicely, Jerry,—for amusement,— 
for—for passing away the time, and all that. 
You just haven’t the spark, that’s all.” 

“I wish you had told me, Theresa.” Jerry was 
wretchedly abject in her despondency. i 

“Why should I ? It amused you, and you have 
money to pay for any amusement that pleases 
you. If you had gone in professionally, expect¬ 
ing to make a career of it, a living,—McDowell 
would have told you. But you were never really 
one of us, you know.” 

“You mean I—I am a misfit.” 

“Yes, a misfit.” Theresa smiled upon her. 

“You—-you don’t like me very well, do you, 
Theresa?” Jerry’s voice was pathetic. 

Theresa’s answer surprised her. “I think you 
are the sweetest, the most lovable girl I ever saw 
in my life. In fact, you’re the only one I ever 
did see.” 

Jerry flushed deeply with surprise and pleasure. 

“You may not be an artist, but you’re a 
heavenly fine kid. You’re not going home, are 
you?” 


89 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“N-no. I’m not. I think not. I don’t know 
what I am going to do.” 

Theresa put the tray on the floor, and Jerry 
went down-stairs. 

Jerry expected quite confidently to hear from 
Rhoda, by telephone at least, to make inquiry as 
to her safe arrival alone at that ghastly hour. 
But she neither telephoned nor came. And so, 
late in the afternoon, Jerry walked the six inter¬ 
vening blocks to her studio. The maid assured 
her that Miss La Faye was in, and sent her 
directly up, but although Jerry knocked twice, 
very smartly, there was no answer. She started 
down, but as the maid insisted that her friend was 
certainly in, she returned once more, and used the 
heavy knocker to such good effect that after a 
time there came a muffled groan, a flinging about 
of covers, and presently the shuffling of soft-soled 
slippers toward the door. 

It was a flushed and disheveled Rhoda who 
confronted her, her usually bright eyes swollen, 
inflamed and dull. Two grotesque kid curlers 
90 


WHEN JERRY GAVE UP 


protruded stiffly over her left eye, while the rest 
of her bobbed hair dangled about her face in free 
disorder. 

“Why didn’t you do it all?” demanded Jerry 
quickly, her eyes on the bristling curlers. “Why 
such partiality?” 

Following the direction of Jerry’s eyes, Rhoda 
lifted a languid hand and felt vaguely about her 
forehead, coming to a sudden, electrical alertness 
as she felt the two curlers. She ran to the mirror 
for a minute inspection. 

“For heaven’s sake,” she wailed, “did I go like 
that to the party?” 

Jerry assured her she did not, and Rhoda 
sighed in great relief. 

“Well, I don’t know how it happened,” she 
said, “and I don’t care, Bertrande brought me 
home. Perhaps he did it for a joke. As long 
as I did not disgrace myself at the party, I don’t 
care.” 

She tumbled upon the bed again, and Jerry sat 
down beside her. 

“Oh, such a head,” moaned Rhoda, lifting her 
9i 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


hands to her throbbing temples. “I swear every 
time I’ll never do it again, and then I do.” 

Jerry took off her gloves, removed her hat, 
folded her coat nicely over the back of a chair, 
and went to work. She got out cups and saucers, 
measured coffee and water into the electric perco¬ 
lator, and connected the switch. 

“You’d better have it black,” she said, “but I’ll 
take cream as usual.” 

Encouraged by her gentle activity, Rhoda 
pulled a dressing-gown about her shoulders, 
bathed her flushed face, brushed out her tousled 
locks, and then drooped wearily upon the tumbled 
couch once more. 

“We didn’t come home until six o’clock,” she 
said. “We had breakfast before we left,—ham 
and eggs and everything. I made the toast. 
Burned myself, too.” 

“Six o’clock! But, Rhoda, how can you 
work—” 

“Who’s going to work ? I told you yesterday 
I couldn’t work to-day. That’s why I finished 
the picture. Oh, such a head!” 

92 


WHEN JERRY GAVE UP 


“Well, of all the silly things,” Jerry said, in 
her most pompously Prudence voice. “Work all 
night, or dance all night, or— It is plain in¬ 
temperance, Rhoda. You ought to use a little 
judgment about things! No wonder you’re a 
wreck.” 

Rhoda laughed feebly. “Now, Iowa,” she 
protested teasingly. “There speaks the corn-fed 
baby!” Then she added soberly: “Did you en¬ 
joy it, Jerry? Every one liked you so much. 
They thought you were perfectly lovely, although 
discreet. Korzky said you were quite annoyed be¬ 
cause he kissed you—at least he thought it was 
you. And Duane—” 

“I had a lovely time, thanks,” Jerry inter¬ 
rupted. “It was the most amusing thing I ever 
saw in my life. No wonder we hear these little 
stories about Greenwich!” 

“That isn’t Greenwich, that’s Brooklyn,” ob¬ 
jected Rhoda. - “But anyhow we admit it. We 
do nothing by fractions. When we jazz, we jazz. 
But remember this, Old Mississippi. When we 
work, we work. I’ve slaved away every night 
93 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


but three in the last three months. The theater 
twice, the party once. If I want to jazz until 
morning—” 

“It’s nobody’s business but your own,” Jerry 
put in, laughing, as Rhoda hesitated. 

“Righto! Rush along the coffee, Angel-face. 
My merry-go-rounds are back-firing on me.” 

Jerry hastened to pour the coffee, and they 
drank a cup in silence, then another. With the 
third serving Jerry broke the silence. 

“Rhoda, who is Francy? I haven’t met her, 
have I?” 

“Francy? Oh, you mean Francy England. 
Well, she is Duane Allerton’s new flame, since 
Kitty Karson got married. What did he say 
about her ?” 

“He didn’t mention her. It was Aimee. She 
didn’t say anything,—just spoke of her.” 

“She’s not really in our crowd, you know. 
She’s one of the Batik Trailers.” 

“The Batik—” 

“Urn, you know. Batik Trailers—the idle rich 
—those who can’t paint, can’t sing, can’t write,—- 
94 


WHEN JERRY GAVE UP 


but like the atmosphere and move in to get the 
air. We have to provide entertainment for them. 
Sometimes it’s china painting, sometimes weav¬ 
ing, or bead work; right now it’s batik. Heaven 
knows what next! It’s the raison d'etre for the 
Art Trailers.” 

“Art Trailers! That is what I am, I suppose, 
an Art Trailer.” 

“Oh, no, Jerry, you’re a student. If you want 
to amuse yourself studying Art—” 

“It’s nobody’s business but my own,” Jerry 
finished promptly, when Rhoda hesitated again. 

“Righto!” Rhoda laughed, agreeing. 

Rhoda begged her to stay for dinner,—promis¬ 
ing to cook most delectable things on the grill, to 
take her out anywhere she liked, to go to the 
theater, generously profuse in her enticement. 
But Jerry would not be persuaded. She said she 
had to go home and fix something for Theresa, 
who was looking wretchedly ill, who had no 
proper regard for food, or rest, or exercise, and 
who certainly required a strong coercive hand to 
force her into reason. 


95 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Theresa’s making heaps of money,” Rhoda 
said surprisingly. “She’s doing marvelously.” 

“Theresa!” 

“Yes, why not?” 

“But—then—why-—for heaven’s sake, then, 
why doesn’t she get a decent room, and eat a 
decent meal once in a while ? I thought—” 

“Well, you thought wrong. It isn’t the money 
with people like Theresa,—like all of us. It’s 
that burning up inside—we can’t help it. Don’t 
try to know what I’m talking about, old Angel- 
face ; the more you think about it the less you’ll 
understand.” 

It was the next morning when Jerry slipped 
softly upstairs with a breakfast tray that Theresa 
asked her diffidently, almost apologetically, if she 
would care to see a few of her “things.” 

“Oh, I should love to,” Jerry cried, flushing 
with pleasure. 

Theresa was vaguely surprised, a little troubled, 
at her eagerness. “If you wanted to see them, 
why didn’t you ask me?” 

96 


WHEN JERRY GAVE UP 


“Oh, I couldn’t ask, Theresa. I thought per¬ 
haps you’d rather not show me—I was just hop¬ 
ing you would suggest it some time.” 

For the first time in the weeks she had known 
Theresa, she really took time to do a thing 
quietly, deliberately and with comfortable easi¬ 
ness. She spent the full morning with Jerry, 
showing her dozens of little sketches, unfinished 
bits of landscape, lovely heads, delicately draped 
figures without number, discussing them mean¬ 
while with an impersonal, judicious interest 
that charmed and fascinated Jerry. She touched 
upon their beauties of composition and execution 
generously, but without personal warmth. And 
she pointed out their defects with a keen eye and 
an unsparing tongue. And then she said: 

“I have saved my best till the last, Jerry. This 
is my one passion, my darling and my adored.” 

It was typical of Theresa that she did not keep 
it on display, “her darling and adored,” but 
packed aw r ay with tender care in a dark closet, 
obviously the one thing in her life that received 
her tender care. Jerry almost held her breath 
97 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


as Theresa brought it out, removed the protect¬ 
ing wrappers, and turned it about for her to see. 

It was a cruel green ocean, lashing great waves 
into white foam, an ocean of blackening shadows, 
and shifting lights. At first glance, Jerry saw 
only the turbulence of a multitude of waters, and 
then, looking deeper, standing out with sharp in¬ 
cisiveness once she had discerned its presence, 
riding the highest, wildest wave of all, stretched 
the slim white body of a woman, triumphant 
white face upraised, dominant white arms flung 
wide,—a joyous, jubilant, fearless figure of 
youth, swept on the black waters, sprayed with 
the white. 

Jerry cried out, enraptured. 

“Theresa! Oh, Theresa! It is beautiful! It 
is the most—thrilling—thing I ever saw. It 
makes you feel so full of—freedom.” 

Theresa nodded, her dark eyes alight with 
pleasure. “Urn, freedom. I’ve been working 
on it for years, Jerry. A thousand or more, I 
think. I used to spend the summer on the coast 
in Maine with my nurse,—when I was a kid, you 
98 


WHEN JERRY GAVE UP 


know. I adored the ocean. It is the only really 
free — really relentless — thing I ever saw. It 
knows no law but its own. — Oh, yes, I know what 
scientists say about the moon, and the tides. — 
Xo, no, what little moon riding the heavens could 
harness a fathomless ocean! I used to sit, like 
an ugly black bird, on the highest rocks, and adore 
the ocean in a storm. A hundred times I went 
home drenched to the skin, soaked, but exalted 
with rapture, to be soundly whipped for my 
mischief, and put to bed in disgrace.” She 
paused, smiling at Jerry. 

“Go on, go on,” she begged feverishly. “Tell 
me.” 

“First, I suppose it was just a personal emo¬ 
tion, — I wanted to ride the waves. I chafed at 
my bondage to solid, sordid earth. I thrilled my¬ 
self to a rapture by fancying myself swept high 
on the topmost wave. And so before long, — my 
thought a mother to the thing, I suppose, — it 
really seemed to me I saw her, the Ocean Rider, 
a lovely, slim, white woman triumphant on the 
waves. I worshiped it. It was a god to me. I 
99 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


have only been able to work on it when the pas¬ 
sion is hot upon me, so it has been a very slow 
thing. A dozen times, in a storm, I have gone 
off to the islands to do another bit on my Ocean 
Rider. It isn’t right yet. The ocean is good 
enough, but the Rider,—I haven’t quite got it.” 
There was brooding discontent in Theresa’s 
voice. “The light in her eyes,—it’s not right. I 
wonder, Jerry—” Her voice took on a sudden 
wheedlesomeness Jerry had never heard in it be¬ 
fore. “I wonder—would you mind—would you 
let me use your eyes? I have wanted a hundred 
times to ask you but—” 

“Oh, Theresa, I shouldn’t mind at all,—I 
should love it. Why didn’t you ask me before? 
But she looks so lovely to me the way she is. I’m 
afraid you will spoil her.” 

Theresa shook her head. “Not right. It’s 
her eyes. I’ve known it all the time,—that is, 
I’ve felt there was something lacking. And 
when I saw you, I knew what it was. She must 
have the light in her eyes that you had when you 
came first to the city, as you were when I saw 


ioo 


WHEN JERRY GAVE UP 


you first. I shall never forget it,—that sort of 
radiant assurance. Look! Her eyes are too 
deep, they are too subtle for a free woman.” 

Jerry flushed. “Theresa, that is irony! Eyes 
like mine for a free woman! Why, I don’t know 
what freedom is. I haven’t the nerve to find out 
when I have a chance. I am bound hand and 
foot—to conventions—to convictions—to Pru¬ 
dence.” 

“Yes, that is what I mean. You don’t find 
that blithe and buoyant confidence, that triumph¬ 
ant joyousness of surety, in freedom itself. Only 
in the pursuit of it. In eyes that have seen 
freedom”—she waved a light hand toward her 
Ocean Rider—“like this, subtle, understanding, 
inscrutable—” 

“Perhaps—perhaps you mean license, Theresa, 
instead of freedom.” 

Theresa smiled at her gentle diffidence. “Yes, 
I get the distinction. But unfortunately, Jerry, 
one must try both before one knows which is 
which! There’s the pity of it. And the eyes 
are faithful registers, they record it all. So my 
ioi 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


brave little Ocean Rider has got to have—not 
eyes that have known freedom, but which hold a 
vision of it—unrealized.” 

That same afternoon, Jerry posed for the eyes 
of the Ocean Rider, who must know not freedom, 
but cherish a dream of it. 

“I think I missed my calling after all,” she 
said. “I should be a model. The other night 
I was a corpse for Rhoda, and now I’m a mer¬ 
maid for you.” 

And she sat, sweetly patient, in a bright light, 
starry-eyed with delight that she could be of 
service, while Theresa worked passionately on the 
eyes that were not just right. And when she had 
finished, and declared the result far exceeded her 
expectations, she kissed Jerry impulsively, for the 
first time, not on the lips but on the brilliant eyes 
which could see visions. Jerry herself saw no 
difference in the picture, felt that Rhoda had 
over-estimated the importance of an unessential 
trifle, but she was glad Theresa was pleased with 
her. 

As she was tripping, almost happily, almost as 


102 



“I should be a model.” 

























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I 




/ 









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/ 












► 














































































« 


■ 






* 


* 






* 















































. 






WHEN JERRY GAVE UP 


in the days before the studio party of such sorry 
memories, down the stairs to her own room, she 
was stopped by Mimi, a radiant vision in a filmy 
gown of silk and silver lace, who held a caution¬ 
ing finger across her lips to* insure silence. 

“Sh!” She whispered. “Go quick, and get 
dolled up. You have a caller—the best-looking 
thing you ever saw in your life!” 

She turned expressive eyes toward the ceiling 
to convey the extent of her rapture. 

“I took him in my room to give you a chance 
to fuss up a little, after messing about with 
Theresa. Shall I make some tea ?” 

Jerry’s eyes were no longer starry, but cold as 
ice. “Who is it ?” 

“Sh, he’ll hear you. Duane Allerton,—the 
stunningest thing I’ve seen in years !”■ 


CHAPTER V 


JERRY MEETS A GENIUS 

J ERRY’S slender hand upon the flimsy banister 
of the stairway grew suddenly tense, so that 
the blue veins stood out clearly upon the delicate 
whiteness of her skin. 

“Will you tell Mr. Allerton,” she said gently 
but with firmness, “that I do not care to see him ? 
I—” 

“Sh, for heaven’s sake!” begged Mimi. “He’ll 
hear you. I’ll tell him you’re out. I’ll give him 
a cup of tea, if you don’t mind, to put him in a 
good humor and then—” 

“But I’m not out, and I’m not busy, and I’m 
not engaged. I’m just not interested.” 

Jerry’s enunciation was perfect, the hallway 
narrow*, the transom open. She went into her 
room and closed the door. Theresa in a similar 
circumstance would have slammed it furiously, 
104 


JERRY MEETS A GENIUS 


but Jerry was not given to furious slammings as 
a means of expression. She closed it softly. 

Mimi, left alone, distracted and bewildered in 
her predicament, threw out both jeweled hands 
in a remonstrative, anxious gesture. 

“Now what can you do with a girl like that?” 
she wailed. 

The answer came from the farther doorway, 
Mimi’s doorway, where Duane Allerton stood and 
laughed, but ruefully. 

“Not much, I’m afraid. Not especially keen 
about seeing me, is she ?” 

With a visible effort, Mimi pulled herself to¬ 
gether, dimpled, used the long lashes to the best 
possible effect. 

“She’s tired, poor thing,” she said sympathetic¬ 
ally. “You must excuse her. She works so 
hard, you know.” 

“Oh, she does! I understood that she did not 
work at all.” 

“I mean she—er—she’s tired, anyhow. And 
nervous, she’s frightfully nervous. Don’t hold it 
against her. Can’t I give you a cup of tea—” 

105 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Oh, no, thanks. I feel I shouldn’t pollute her 
atmosphere any longer than is absolutely neces¬ 
sary. Awfully good of you; thanks very much.” 

He went down-stairs at once, and let himself 
out into the narrow street. And Mimi knocked 
on Jerry’s door, opening it herself without wait¬ 
ing for an answer. 

“Jerry,” she began plaintively, “you have hurt 
his feelings just terribly, poor boy,—and so good- 
looking. Now, that’s positively not nice.” 

“Go and cheer him up if you like,” said Jerry. 
“He’s easily comforted.” 

“He wouldn’t wait—I mean— You might at 
least have introduced me. The best-looking 
thing—” 

Jerry learned afterward that he had gone to 
Rhoda for her address, and two days later he 
went to her again, to ask her to intercede for him, 
to remonstrate with her disagreeable protegee 
from the Middle West. He asked Rhoda if Jerry 
was a flirt. 

“A flirt?” echoed Rhoda vaguely. “Good 
106 


JERRY MEETS A GENIUS 


heavens, I don’t know. What is a flirt? They 
used to say in college that she was, but they 
meant it nicely, every one was crazy about her. 
That’s Iowa, you know. A girl who is quite 
wickedly awful in the Middle West seems like an 
angel from Heaven when she’s transplanted to 
Greenwich. Don’t ask me anything about her. 
I don’t know. She’s a lovely thing, and I think 
a lot of her.” 

It did not remotely occur to Jerry that she was 
unhappy. Instead, she felt that she was quite 
joyous, care-free. She took a great deal of 
pleasure in doing things for Theresa, making her 
comfortable,—Theresa, who cared as little for 
comfort as a honey bee for snow. She scoured 
the market for tempting delicacies, and became 
very proficient in preparing them nicely on her 
little grill. One day Theresa asked if she would 
mind rummaging through a couple of old boxes 
for her, in search of a particular bit of tinsel she 
particularly needed for a costume. 

Jerry flushed with pleasure. 

107 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Oh, will you let me ? May I go through the 
drawers, and everything, and fold things up—I’ll 
be very quiet.” 

Theresa laughed at her. “Go as far as you 
like,” she said generously. “Funny thing about 
you, Jerry. You never bother me. Most people 
nag me to sixes and sevens over nothing at all. 
Mimi especially. I feel she is coming when she 
starts up the last flight of stairs, and I begin to 
see cross-eyed right away. You are the nicest 
kid.” 

After that, Jerry took entire charge of The¬ 
resa’s room and Theresa’s belongings, sorting out 
soiled bits of silk for the laundry, things Theresa 
had overlooked for months, and washing out es¬ 
pecially fine pieces with her own hands. 

“Oh, Theresa,” she said one day, “I wish you 
were my sister.” 

“Oh, good heavens!” 

“Yes, I do. I had a little brother, but he died. 
I can not remember him.—Oh, I do wish you 
were my sister! Then I should be satisfied just 
to live on this way and take care of you and do 
108 


JERRY MEETS A GENIUS 


little things for you. I should feel I was very 
important, indeed,—you do paint such exquisite 
things, Theresa,—I should be so proud of you. 
I’d probably take all the credit for everything you 
do, and brag about the way I brought you up.” 

Jerry laughed gleefully at this picture of her¬ 
self, but Theresa did not join her merriment. 

“Funny thing, Jerry, but you are the first per¬ 
son in the world—the first woman—who ever 
wanted me for anything,—friend, foe, or fellow 
citizen. I think I must be quite getting on in 
the world, to have somebody craving me for— 
anything. I feel quite stuck up about it.” 

She put her brushes down abruptly and went 
out of the room without apology, and Jerry, with 
that new wisdom of hers which was only intuition 
and not the least understanding, went on with the 
papers she was filing and paid no attention when 
she went, nor when she came again. 

Jerry went about a great deal, sometimes with 
Mimi. She w T as not fond of Mimi, but enjoyed 
her immensely. She was a constant source of 
109 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


gay delight, with her pretty vanities and boasted 
conquests, where Theresa was like a brooding 
pain to her. She laughed at Mimi, but in her 
heart she wept aloud over soul- and body-worn 
Theresa. 

Duane Allerton sent her flowers. Rhoda, in 
such a case, would have tossed them from her 
window in holy scorn. Theresa would have 
crushed them to crumpled petals between her bare 
hands, the thorns of them pricking her skin to 
crimson. Jerry looked at them, gave them to 
Mimi. He wrote to her. Jerry read the notes, 
and tore them up. She never thought of return¬ 
ing them to him, unopened, although she knew 
from whom they came. That would have been 
too dramatic, too theatrical, for her. The waste 
basket served her purpose well enough. 

One afternoon she saw him. She was dancing 
at tea at the Biltmore with Mimi and two young 
friends of hers, boys fresh from college. One 
was cubbishly infatuated with Jerry, and she, in 
mischief, had set herself to tantalize him to the 
limit of her charm. In the midst of her pretty 


i io 


JERRY MEETS A GENIUS 


coquetry she looked up suddenly, and saw Duane 
Allerton at a table across from them, sitting with 
a woman, very lovely, very sophisticated, very 
young. “Francy,” Jerry thought at once. 

Mimi would have redoubled her attentions to 
the young admirer, to whet Allerton’s interest, 
to stir his jealousy. Jerry could not do that, she 
did not even think of it. She yielded to the 
natural hush that swept over her at seeing him, 
and sat, a subdued and softened figure, with the 
others at the table. She knew his eyes remained 
steadily on her face. She knew he marveled that 
she permitted the silly exaggeration of this ardent 
boy’s devotion, and yet repulsed his own more 
finished advances. Jerry herself did not know 
why she did. 

When they arose to go, she turned and looked 
squarely in his direction. She could have an¬ 
swered the call of his sober eyes, gone softly to 
him, touched his hand. 

“Are you ready?” she said to Mimi, drawing 
up the folds of her cloak as the amorous youth 
placed it about her shoulders. 


in 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Duane’s eyes followed them as they passed out. 
Jerry would not turn her head, to look away 
from him, pretend she did not see him. She 
would have been ashamed of subterfuge. She 
looked at him frankly, and did not know him. 

“Jerry, there’s your friend,” whispered Mimi. 
“Isn’t he the best-looking thing you ever saw?” 

She turned the effective lashes upon him 
brightly, and Duane nodded to her, and smiled. 
Jerry said nothing. 

On the following morning, Theresa went down 
to Jerry’s room before the usual time for the 
daily breakfast tray. This was an occurrence of 
such in frequence that Jerry could not hide a 
flutter of flattered pleasure when she appeared in 
the doorway. But Theresa, even in her most 
formal moments, wasted no time in idle talk. 
She came for a purpose, and went at it with 
sturdy directness. 

“See here, Jerry, I thought of something last 
night,” she began briskly. “Are you sure you 
want to give up studying Art ?” 


112 


JERRY MEETS A GENIUS 


“Absolutely sure.” 

“Sure you won’t change your mind after a 
little, and begin again ?” 

“Absolutely sure.” 

“What are you going to do with the lessons? 
You paid a whole term in advance, didn’t you? 
Are you going to get your money back ?” 

“I don’t think I can. I’ll just have to let it 

__ 

go- 

“See here, Jerry, you shouldn’t waste such an 
opportunity. Now poor old McDowell needs the 
money; he teaches for his bread and butter, you 
know. But if you stop so soon, he may feel he 
has to make a partial refund anyhow. Why 
don’t you transfer the lessons to some one who 
would like them, but can’t afford them?” 

“To whom, for instance? You have some one 
in mind, haven’t you?” 

Theresa admitted that she had, that she had 
just thought of it. The one she had in mind was 
Greta Val, an unprepossessing country girl, who 
had appeared suddenly from somewhere, and was 
earning a hard existence by serving as chamber- 
ii3 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


maid at the old Griller Studios on Ninth Street. 
Jerry had seen her once when she went to one of 
the studios with Mimi for tea, and remembered 
her as a stiffly rigid young person, with whom 
one would more likely associate scrub buckets and 
brooms, than delicate paints and brushes. 

“Um, she’s ugly,” said Theresa. “But that 
kid’s a genius, all the same. She knows nothing, 
has never had a lesson in her life,—and God only 
knows what she came here for, without friends, 
without money. Oh, you know how people are, 
Jerry. They think if they can only squeeze into 
the Village they’ll just naturally absorb Art with 
the air they breathe. Well, she doesn’t do so 
badly, for all that. The fellows are all good 
to her, give her scraps of paint and canvas, and 
tell her little things that help her. Greta Val 
may be ugly, she may be green, but she’s got it, 
Jerry, and it’ll boil over some time, you mark 
my words.” 

Jerry was almost childishly pleased. “Oh, 
Theresa, get her quick! She can have all my 
things, the easel, the paints, everything! Get her 
114 


JERRY MEETS A GENIUS 


right away, won’t you ? I’ll feel so much better 
when it’s all out of my sight.” 

And while Theresa went out to the telephone, 
Jerry, with her buoyant enthusiasm, set to work, 
pulling out boxes of paint and crayons, canvases, 
brushes and books, that all should be in readiness 
for the girl who had this thing that Jerry herself 
had not. 

She came at one, Greta Val, and Theresa took 
her down to Jerry,—a slim straight girl as she 
had vaguely remembered, with thin unsmiling 
lips, and wide unsmiling eyes. Jerry caught her 
hand and drew her impulsively into the room. 

“Are you Greta Val? Listen! I have paid 
for a term of lessons with Graves McDowell, and 
I don’t want them, I don’t want to study Art. 
But they are all paid for, and it is a shame to 
waste them, so I want you to take them in my 
place. And look!” She ran quickly to the table, 
and flung an inclusive hand over the boxes and 
jars piled high. “I have all these things, can¬ 
vases, brushes, paints, just going to waste, for I 
Ii5 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


can’t use them. I want to get rid of them, I 
don’t even like to have them about. And my 
easel—it nearly fell down on me in the tub last 
night and might have killed me,—will you take 
it, and use it, and—and the lessons, and every¬ 
thing ?” 

“Are you making fun of me?” demanded Greta 
Val in a passionate, strangled, throaty voice. 

“Oh, no, how can you think”—Jerry laughed, 
nervously—“how can you think of such a thing? 
I just want to get rid of it, it takes up such 
a lot of room, it makes me nervous to have it 
piled about and—” 

“How dare you make fun of me!” Greta Val 
lifted a sharp resentful hand and struck Jerry an¬ 
grily across the face, and then, with a cyclonic 
burst of tears, whirled about and ran from the 
room, the door reverberating loudly in her tem¬ 
pestuous wake. 

Jerry stood as one petrified, a slender hand up¬ 
raised and motionless, her face showing deathly 
white except for the splash of red where Greta’s 
hand had struck. Her eyes were wide with 
116 


JERRY MEETS A GENIUS 


horror, her lips parted in mute bewilderment, 
while Theresa flung herself upon the couch and 
screamed with helpless laughter. 


CHAPTER VI 


JERRY ADRIFT 

F OR a long time, Jerry stood, breathless, be¬ 
wildered, in the center of her room, a rigid, 
lovely figure in her amazement, while Theresa 
rolled on the couch with choking laughter. 

“D-did you see what—that creature—did to 
me ?” she gasped at last. 

“Oh, Jerry!” cried Theresa, struggling up to 
a sitting posture, wiping her eyes with the sleeve 
of her paint-stained smock. “Did I see it!—I 
can see it now!” Theresa flung herself joyously 
among the cushions again. 

“The insolent—impudent—” 

“I’ll bet you never got one like that before,” 
interrupted Theresa. “The little spitfire ! Were 
you ever slapped before, Jerry?” 

Jerry shook her head, she was still awed, still 
breathless with the unexpectedness of it. “Never! 
118 


JERRY ADRIFT 


I was never deliberately hurt—by anybody—in 
my life. P-Prudence doesn’t do such things.” 

Theresa sobered suddenly. “It’s a shame,” she 
said sympathetically. “The poor kid! She was 
so happy she didn’t know what—” 

“Happy! Do you call that happiness! Well, 
if that’s the way a genius feels happy, thank God 
I’m common-place. I’m glad she was happy! If 
she had been a little peeved, she would doubtless 
have killed me outright!” 

Jerry’s eyes were flashing with resentment, her 
fine lips twitching. Tears came into her eyes. 

“I—I thought she would be pleased,” she 
stammered. “I thought she would like it.” 

Theresa reached for her hand, caressed it with 
unusual gentleness. “Don’t take it that way, 
Jerry,” she urged. “You don’t understand. 
Think what a barren, bitter life the poor little 
tramp leads. She was amazed beyond reason, 
she couldn’t believe it,—you were so bright, and 
so joyous,—of course she thought you were mak¬ 
ing fun. It was too good to be true. These 
things don’t happen once in a lifetime. She’ll be 
119 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


sick about this, you’ll see. Why, she didn’t know 
what she was doing, she’s an awfully nice little 
thing—I—I hope you aren’t going to hold it 
against her, and—” 

“Oh, she can have the stuff, if that’s what you 
mean. But keep her out of my sight! I never 
want to see her again! I hate her!” 

Oh, very well Theresa knew the temper of 
this kind of human flint with which they had to 
deal. She knew no kindly messenger could 
bridge the gap Greta had so dynamically created 
between herself and the one who wished to help 
her,—that she would accept of no second-hand 
bounty after her stormy passion. No use to send 
a word of forgiveness, for Greta would not be¬ 
lieve. 

And so Theresa, knowing that Jerry herself 
must reach across the breach, stayed with her, 
petted her, coaxed her into yielding. 

“Oh, very well, have it your own way then,” 
Jerry said at last. “I know I’m a weak-minded 
little dunce, and let you twist me around your 
little finger. Come on then. Let’s go and find 


120 


JERRY ADRIFT 

\he wild little heathen, and tell her what we think 
of her.” 

Theresa promptly accepted the submission, 
knowing full well she could trust the end to 
Jerry’s inherent sweetness, and the two girls set 
out together, at once, in search of Jerry’s spitfire. 
She did not answer their ring at the Griller 
Studios, and after persistent pressing on the but¬ 
ton, one of the artists on the second floor looked 
out from his window, and recognizing Theresa, 
agreed to press his buzzer to give them admit¬ 
tance. 

“We want Greta Val,” said Theresa. “Where 
is her room?” 

“In the basement,” he called cheerfully. “And 
dark as the deuce, so watch your step as you go 
down. The door on the right, clear at the end.” 

Very gingerly they made their way, hand in 
hand, down the dark stairs, and through the dark 
basement corridor to the door at the end, on the 
right. 

“Listen,” Theresa whispered. “Didn’t I tell 
you?” 


121 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


The sound of passionate, strangled sobbing 
came out to them from behind the door. Theresa 
knocked smartly, but received no answer. She 
turned the knob, but the door was locked from 
within. She pounded heavily, incessantly, and 
presently the strangled sobbing ceased, and in¬ 
tense silence prevailed. 

“Greta, come here and open this door,” ordered 
Theresa. 

“Go away,” was the muffled rejoinder. 

“Open the door, you little simpleton,” said 
Theresa. “Right away! It is Theresa Brady.” 

“Go away, I tell you!” 

“Greta, you ought to be ashamed of yourself ! 
Now you come and open this door as fast as ever 
you can, or I’ll bang it down!” 

The sternness of her voice had its effect at last. 
Greta shuffled across the room and opened the 
door. A pitiful figure, she stood before them, 
her thin hair stringing about her face, her cheap 
blouse twisted and pulled awry, her unlovely face 
swollen with weeping and stained with tears. 
When she realized that it was Jerry who stood 


122 


JERRY ADRIFT 


with Theresa in the dark hallway, she cried out 
faintly and covered her face with her hands. 
Theresa stood back, made way for Jerry. She 
had done her part. She knew that Jerry now 
could b>e given a free loose rein. Jerry ran into 
the dingy basement room at once, and put both 
arms about the wretched, cowering figure. 

“Don’t cry,” she said, “don’t cry. I don’t 
mind a bit, honestly I don’t. We all do silly 
things when we’re excited.” 

She pulled her softly across the room toward 
the cot, and sat beside her, holding her in her 
arms, calling her soft caressive names, “silly little 
goose,” and “foolish child,” while Theresa 
watched them soberly, her unfathomable eyes not 
on Greta, who by rights should have been the cen¬ 
ter of the scene, but on Jerry’s tender sorry face. 
After a little, when Greta lay quiet in her arm, 
except for an occasional racking shudder of her 
thin shoulders, Jerry explained. 

“You see, I thought perhaps I could paint a 
little myself, but I can’t really, and I don’t want 
to be bothered. But it would be wicked to throw 
1*23 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


those lovely things away, and when Theresa told 
me about you, I was so happy I could hardly 
wait to get hold of you. It was very stupid, the 
way I told you. I do things so quickly, all in a 
flash, on the spur of the moment, and I don’t 
wonder you thought I was crazy. But I really 
do not want the things, and it will make me so 
happy if you will just take them off my hands, 
you know.” 

Greta did not speak, but pressed her thin, un¬ 
lovely, fervent lips upon Jerry’s fur-wrapped 
shoulder. A few minutes later, when Greta was 
straightened and washed and brushed, they re¬ 
turned, the three of them together, to Jerry’s 
room, and joyously carried down to the street the 
boxes, the easel, the blocks of canvas. Jerry 
called a taxi, and they drove away to Greta’s 
room with her priceless treasures. 

When Theresa and Jerry were turning at last 
to leave her alone with her riches, suddenly the 
power of speech returned. She caught Jerry’s 
hand. 

“Miss Harmer,” she stammered, the words 
124 


JERRY ADRIFT 


tripping each other up on her eager tongue, “the 
first picture I get hung in the academy—you shall 
have it,—for nothing!” 

The air with which she said it was triumphant, 
and Jerry thanked her sweetly. But when they 
were on the street alone, she smiled about it. 

Theresa turned upon her somberly. “Don’t 
laugh. It may be years from now, but some day 
you’ll get that picture. And one day, Jerry, 
you’ll be proud and glad to remember you gave 
the poor little fool her first chance. You wait!” 

The days passed slowly, and Jerry did not find 
an avenue for the active expression of her per¬ 
sonality she so ardently desired. She had no 
illusions in regard to herself, she was an ordi¬ 
nary, midwestern girl, very charming, very 
beautiful, but one who had not been drawn upon 
the knees of the gods. She could play nicely, 
sing very sweetly, but could do no more with 
music than to amuse herself. Upon her college 
work she could obtain a certificate for teach¬ 
ing school, but she felt no such inclination. 

125 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


She might take a business course and become one 
of the countless alert-eyed, trim-clad business 
girls of the great city, girls who stirred her warm¬ 
est admiration without creating in her a desire to 
become one of them. The grandeur of work, as 
work, did not impress her. She required a 
motive. 

If her father had died suddenly, Jerry would 
have swept courageously into his great motor fac¬ 
tory in Iowa, studied it, struggled with it, learned 
to control it,—a reason there for her effort. But 
with Jerrold himself in such shrewd and success¬ 
ful dominance of his own business, she saw no 
such occasion. And still she believed that some¬ 
where, somehow, she must strike on a thing that 
would command her effort, and hold her interest. 
In the meanwhile, she devoted her time to catering 
sweetly to Theresa,—Theresa, who was working 
with a more consuming passion than ever before, 
and with ever-increasing disregard for every 
natural safeguard of health. 

When she went up to the studio at ten o’clock 
one morning with the breakfast tray for Theresa, 
126 


JERRY ADRIFT 


she was surprised to find Mimi there before her. 
Mimi seldom intruded and was always curtly 
discouraged by Theresa when she did. 

It was Mimi who spoke to Jerry first. “Come 
right in,” she said. “We’re having our daily 
battle, but—you won’t mind.” 

“Oh, please don’t let me interfere with the 
war,” said Jerry, laughing. “I’ll run down and 
wait till the signing of the treaty.” 

“No, don’t go,” said Theresa gloomily. “She 
may cut it short if you stay. She’s bothering me 
frightfully.” 

“Jerry, do something with her,” pleaded Mimi. 
“She’s a perfect fool. We’re invited—both of 
us—to Atlantic City for the week-end, all ex¬ 
penses paid and everything, and she won’t even 
talk about it.” 

“I don’t want to go, and I can’t go, and I 
won’t go. What is there to say about it?” 
Theresa disposed of the subject bruskly. 

“It would be lovely,” said Jerry. “Perhaps 
it would do you good, Theresa, you look so 
tired.” 


127 


PRUDENCE'S DAUGHTER 


Theresa said nothing. 

“I'm getting sick of it,” said Mimi quite furi¬ 
ously. “I need a little companionship, I tell you. 
If you don’t stop being so stingy and so piggish, 
Theresa, I’ll get married, and then—” 

“Oh, good lord! Again!” Theresa burst 
into scornful laughter. “Jerry, witness this. 
I’ve stuck along here through the last two hus¬ 
bands, but I’m through. You get married again, 
Mimi, and I’m off. And that’s final.” 

Mimi laughed lightly. “Oh, you can’t tell, I 
might have good luck another time.” 

“Not you. You don’t know how to pick 
them.” 

“Oh, I think I’ll run on down—” interrupted 
Jerry in some confusion. 

“You stay where you are,” said Theresa. 

“Don’t go on my account,” said Mimi. “I 
don’t mind Theresa. She’s just jealous.” 

“Jealous! Not a bit of it. I’m just tired of 
supporting husbands, that’s all.” 

“Well, the last two were—a little—uh—” 

“I should say they were! One stole half the 
128 


JERRY ADRIFT 


furniture to hock for booze, and the other made 
love to everybody in the house—including me— 
so you know he was crazy—and neither one of 
them earned a cent during their—their incum¬ 
bency, as you might say.—Well, suppose you go 
on down now, Mimi, you make me wild. I want 
to work.” 

“Isn’t she polite, Jerry? I don’t see how you 
can stand her. It makes me furious, just to 
look at her.” 

Mimi trailed out, in a fine hauteur, and closed 
the door upon the two girls. 

“If you ever get married, Jerry,” Theresa said, 
“don’t let Mimi have anything to do with picking 
him out. She has the rottenest luck with hus¬ 
bands.” 

Jerry professed her entire disinclination for a 
husband of any picking. But her eyes were 
cloudy. 

A few nights later, she saw Duane Allerton 
again. It was a studio dinner at Aimee Glorian’s. 
While the other four of the little party played 
129 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


bridge, Jerry and Leonid Koraev, one of the new 
school of Russian actors, with whom New York 
abounds, washed and dried the dishes, and then 
turned on the phonograph, and tangoed gaily 
about the table in the center of the room where 
the others were playing. Leonid was obviously 
enchanted, Jerry gay and not deterring. He held 
her close in his arms, drawing her ardently closer 
at frequent intervals. Jerry laughed,—thrust a 
bare white elbow between them, crooking it impu¬ 
dently almost in his very face, holding him a little 
away. Leonid kissed her arm. Jerry was look¬ 
ing up, directly into his eyes, teasing, laughing, as 
they danced slowly about. 

He shifted his arm suddenly, crushing her 
elbow away, holding her so close that she was 
obliged to tilt back her head to avoid his face 
touching hers. 

“1 shall bite your chin if you do that again,” 
she warned him merrily. 

That was when she saw Duane, who had come 
in quietly and was standing in the shadow of a 
towering highboy in the corner. Jerry strove in 
130 


JERRY ADRIFT 


vain to throw off the chill of depression, to smile 
with the same assiduous warmth upon Leonid. 
She could not. 

The others at the table, quarreling fiercely over 
a hand, did not even stop to welcome Duane when 
he joined them. When Jerry and Leonid paused 
to hear the argument, Duane hurriedly wound the 
phonograph and asked her to dance. Jerry shook 
her head. 

“No, thanks. Not now. I’m tired.” She 
even smiled a little, to deceive the others in the 
room. 

Duane turned his back upon them, forcing her 
to withdraw from them a little and stand alone 
with him. 

“Will you—after a little when you are rested ?” 

She shook her head again, smiling, not looking 
at him. “I fancy I shall be tired all evening,” 
she said. 

“You are more beautiful than ever, Jerry.” 

“Thank you.” She did not even flush beneath 
the warmth of his eyes. 

She would have returned to the table, but he 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


retained her one instant longer. “Then you 
really prefer the violent Russian method to my 
more plebeian style?” 

“Yes, very much.” 

They abandoned bridge, then, and played 
penny ante, the seven of them, gambling furi¬ 
ously for pennies. Jerry was very quiet, her 
hands like ice, but she kept a steady eye upon her 
cards, and after two hours was a winner by 
forty-two cents. She said she knew it was play¬ 
ing a wicked poker to win and leave, but she had 
an appointment with Theresa at eleven, she must 
really go. Leonid also insisted he had an en¬ 
gagement, up-town, and would walk by Reilly’s 
Alley with her on his way for a bus. And they 
went out quickly, the others barely pausing in 
their play to say good-by, although Duane’s eyes 
followed her to the door. She did not look back. 

Theresa surprised her one morning by asking 
abruptly: 

“When are you going home, Jerry?” 

Jerry blushed and marveled that she did so. 

T 3 2 


JERRY ADRIFT 


She would have said she had never thought of 
going home. 

“I don’t know—perhaps not at all,” she said 
confusedly. “I am not thinking of it—yet.—* 
Theresa, what do girls do when—there is noth¬ 
ing to do—and no reason for doing it ?” 

“God knows. I’ve often wondered,” said 
Theresa tersely. 

She had tried to help Jerry come into her own, 
had offered countless suggestions in that imper¬ 
sonal way of hers which kept her interest free 
from all intrusiveness. But to every suggestion 
Jerry had but the one answer: 

“But why, Theresa? Why?” 

For Jerry, still passionately in search of a 
raison d’etre, saw no enticement in a hard manual 
work which would wear her out mentally, 
physically,—for the sake of earning a few dol¬ 
lars she did not need,—depriving some other girl 
who did need it of just that same amount. It 
seemed to Jerry it would be little more than a 
robbery. 

“Work!” she said. “Work in itself is not an 


133 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


ennobling thing, not beautiful, not glorious. It’s 
the being crazy about it that gives it dignity!” 

And Jerry, feeling no thrilling of the ego, 
struggled desperately along, still adhering with a 
childish passion to her belief that somewhere, 
sometime, she must set her feet in that elusive 
way which would lead at last to the personal, 
intimate, joyous expression of herself where only 
could be found the content, creation and com¬ 
pletion her restless spirit craved. But she did 
not find it. 

Theresa watched her moodily during those 
days, wondering what would come of it, knowing 
that eventually Jerry would go home. “When 
you go home,” she would say,—not “if,” and 
Jerry always flushed and answered stubbornly: 

“But I do not know yet if I shall.” 

Theresa came to her door one night. Jerry 
was just ready to leave, going up-town to a 
theater with Aimee Glorian. 

“Theresa, you go to bed,” Jerry said crossly. 
“You look so tired,—I just wish my Prudence 
134 


JERRY ADRIFT 


could get hold of you for a few days. She’d 
make you step around!” 

‘‘I step around too much as it is,” said Theresa, 
laughing faintly. “That’s the trouble with me. 
But I am tired, Jerry. I am really going to rest.” 

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” said Jerry. 
“Your flesh may be tired, but it won’t rest.” 

“You’ll see, one of these days. Jerry, I have 
a present for you!” 

Jerry was girlishly excited. “A present for me, 
Theresa? Where is it? What—” 

“Leave your door unlocked. It will be in your 
room when you come back. I hope you are going 
to like it.” 

“Oh, Theresa, I know I shall love it. I can’t 
imagine what—oh, Theresa, I hope—” 

“You hope—what?” 

“Oh, I shall love anything you give me, 
Theresa, you so seldom do things like that. But 
I hope it is just a little teeny scratch of yours—a 
splash of paint on an inch of canvas if no more. 
I should love something of yours. I’ve been 
wanting one so awfully much and—” 

135 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“You’re very inquisitive,” said Theresa. “But 
I shan’t tell you a thing. It will be here when 
you come back.” 

“I’ve a big notion not to go at all,” declared 
Jerry. “I don’t care for the old show,—I want 
to see my present.” 

“You go along.” Theresa tossed her wrap 
from the chair across her shoulders. She fol¬ 
lowed her out into the hall and leaned over the 
banister as Jerry stood on the second step below, 
smiling up at her. “Jerry, you wished once that 
I might have been your sister. Do you still ?” 

“Yes, more than ever.” 

“I wish so, too.” Theresa acknowledged 
soberly. “But of course it couldn’t possibly be, 
not by any manner of means.” She hesitated a 
little. “The things that go into making a Jerry, 
and those that go into a Theresa,— Oh, no, not 
by the wildest stretch of imagination.” She 
laughed a little, ruefully, and leaning over, kissed 
Jerry suddenly on the top of her head. “Run 
along now, and be a good girl.” 


CHAPTER VII 


AND JERRY SAW PRUDENCE 

J ERRY left Aimee at the entrance to Reilly’s 
Alley, hurriedly let herself into the house, 
and started up the stairs on a light run. She was 
impatient to see the present Theresa had left for 
her. She noticed no unnatural quiet in the house. 
There was no dimming of lights, no mysterious 
brooding hush about the place. And yet when 
she saw Mimi waiting for her at the top of the 
stairs, a lovely picture in her bright gown with 
trailing tinseled fringes, she felt a sudden chill¬ 
ing of her eagerness. 

“Oh, hello,” she said. “You startled me a 
little. You look like a solemn ghost in silk and 
fringe.” 

“Come into my room a while, will you?” Mimi 
asked, and there was a hollowness in her usually 
lilting voice. “Everybody’s out. You’re the 
first one home. I don’t want to be alone.” 


137 


PRUDENCE'S DAUGHTER 


Jerry, with her usual willingness to please, 
followed along into her sitting-room in the rear 
of the narrow hall,—an effective room, which 
Theresa found unbearably stuffy, but into which 
Mimi fitted to nice perfection,—all shaded lights, 
with great bronze burners of pungent incense, 
oriental hangings, silken cushions. 

“Sit here, dearie, in this light, it just suits you," 
Mimi said absently, from force of habit, tucking 
a cushion against Jerry’s shoulder as she had 
done a hundred times before. “I’m frightfully 
upset. You don’t mind my troubling you, do 
you? You are so soothing.’’ 

“Not a bit. I like it,’’ Jerry spoke with truth. 
She loved being wanted. “But I hope it isn’t 
a real trouble,—just a little attack of moods.’’ 

Mimi lit a cigarette and sank among the cush¬ 
ions on the chaise longue, puffing a cloud of 
smoke about her. With the light on her face, 
Jerry could see that she was ghastly pale beneath 
the creamy layers of rouge and powder. 

“It’s Theresa.’’ Her voice sounded almost 
irritable. 


138 


AND JERRY SAW PRUDENCE 


“She works too hard,” Jerry assented. “We 
must take her in hand, and make her spare her¬ 
self a little. I wanted her to go to the theater 
with us, but she would not hear of it.” 

“In a way I suppose she could hardly go* to¬ 
night,” Mimi spoke apologetically, the tone in 
which she always tried to excuse Theresa’s 
abruptness. “Don’t mind her, Jerry. She doesn’t 
mean to be rude.” 

“I don’t mind her. I think she’s wonderful.” 

Mimi twisted her white fingers into a rigid, 
knotted gnarl. 

“She was wonderful, but—but—she killed her¬ 
self,” she said hollowly. 

Jerry cried out, struggled to her feet, and then 
sank back white and horrified among the cushions. 

“Mimi—you—oh, don’t,” she cried. “You— 
mustn’t say such things—you—frighten me.” 

Mimi inhaled a great gulp of cigarette smoke. 

“They have taken her to Mietta’s at the corner, 
—you know, the one with flowers in the win¬ 
dows. I’m frightfully upset. It—it makes a 
wreck of one.” 


139 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Jerry’s hot young blood ran cold, a great black¬ 
ness yawned before her eyes. 

“This terrible woman is making a fool of me,” 
she stammered aloud, incoherently. 

“She shot herself. Right in the heart. There 
is blood all over the floor. She slashed her pic¬ 
tures—every one—with that little bronze dagger 
I brought her from Rome. Her room is a per¬ 
fect mess. You—you don’t mind my talking 
about it, do you, Jerry? I can’t help it. I’m a 
wreck.” 

“N-no, of course not,” Jerry stammered. “Of 
course not.” After a moment, when she could 
speak, she asked in such a soft and pitiful voice, 
“Why did she, Mimi ? She was so clever. 
Wasn’t she happy?” 

“I don’t know why. Of course she was happy. 
Every one said how brilliant she was, what a 
genius. She had a lover—she gave him up. She 
said one couldn’t serve two masters. She was 
right. I tried it, and made a muddle of both. 
She was quite right. She didn’t mind much,— 
giving him up. She worshiped her pictures.” 

140 


AND JERRY SAW PRUDENCE 


Jerry brooded over it bitterly. “I could have 
loved her much more,” she said. “But she never 
seemed to want—too much.” 

Beautiful, unfathomable Theresa, what trag¬ 
edies had underlain that tense alertness! Jerry 
cried a little. 

“She might have left the pictures,” Mimi chat¬ 
tered nervously, with cold lips. “Some of them 
were fine. I could have sold them for a great 
deal of money.” 

“Mimi, did she owe you money,—Theresa?” 
Jerry’s voice was eager. She should love to do 
that parting kindness to the memory of strange 
Theresa,—to pay her final debts. 

Mimi stared at her, shook her head. “Of 
course not. She owed nobody anything. We 
took this house together, but she has always borne 
the expense of it, from the very first.” 

“Um, she would,” whispered Jerry, disap¬ 
pointed that she was denied that final happiness, 
but understanding Theresa with the cold but 
kindly hand. 

“Oh, that is why she said good-by, and kissed 
141 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


me,” Jerry whispered. “That’s why she said she 
would—give me a present—” 

Mimi caught upon the words hopefully. “A 
present! Theresa said it? Come, quickly.” 

They ran feverishly down the hall to Jerry’s 
room and reached for the button, Mimi’s hand 
ahead of Jerry’s, flooding the room with light. 
They saw it instantly, standing out vivid and 
bright in the small room, propped upon the piano 
against the wall, Theresa’s parting gift to the 
one who had most desired her,—the Ocean Rider, 
a tumult of green and white. 

Jerry stood before it, sobbing piteously, twist¬ 
ing her hands together. 

“Oh, Theresa, how could you?” she wept. 
And then, remembering Mimi, she tried to stifle 
her emotion, to be quiet, self-possessed. “She— 
she wasn’t unhappy about it,” she stammered 
weakly. “She was quite gay. She laughed at 
me and kissed me—” Her voice broke on the 
pitiful words, “Perhaps—she is really getting— 
rested, as she said.” 

“Come on back,” said Mimi. “It makes me 


142 


AND JERRY SAW PRUDENCE 


nervous. I never liked that picture. There is 
something so—defiant—about it.” 

They sat down opposite each other, stiffly, 
Jerry in the great chair, Mimi lighting another 
cigarette as she lay tense and rigid on the chaise 
longue. Looking at her suddenly Jerry realized 
that the painted woman in the trailing silken 
gown was broken-hearted, suffering things in¬ 
describable, that her very thoughts were bleeding. 

“Mimi, you loved Theresa, didn’t you?” 

That curious, clinging friendship between the 
young girl with her terrific energy, and the 
frivolous, light-hearted woman was the greatest 
mystery Jerry had touched upon in the great city. 

Mimi smoked passionately, twisting the cigar¬ 
ette between her lips. Suddenly she tossed it 
into the fireplace, lit another. Her fingers were 
blue. 

“You didn’t know that I am Theresa’s mother, 
did you, Jerry? I don’t suppose she told you.” 

That was more than Jerry could bear. She 
broke into high hysterical laughter. 

“Mimi! Don’t!” 


143 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Mimi nodded again. “She was my daughter.” 
She began to explain with nervous intensity. 
“She called me Mudder when she was a little 
baby, but she grew up into such a funny, long- 
legged monster of a child! And I had—my ad¬ 
mirers,—my career. In the profession they want 
you always to remain young, unmarried and free. 
It was absurd to lay claim to youth with a great 
girl like Theresa brandishing my past in my face. 
So we fell into the way of using Mimi and 
Theresa. Lots of them do, on the stage. She 
liked it,—Theresa liked it.” 

Jerry said nothing, could say nothing. Poor 
Theresa! She thought of the terrible, tragic 
loneliness of the brilliant young artist. Her 
mother she had sacrificed to youth and beauty, 
her love she had given up for Art. Now she 
was dead, glad of her freedom from a life which 
had only tired her. Jerry shuddered. She sat 
motionless, shocked beyond words. 

“Oh, you are blaming me!” Mimi cried sud¬ 
denly. “You do not understand! I tell you it 
is often done in the profession. We think noth- 
144 


AND JERRY SAW PRUDENCE 


ing of it.—You have never understood me, nor 
Theresa,—none of us! You were never one of 
us!” 

“No,—I was never really one of you.” Jerry 
did not resent it. She was glad. 

“Theresa didn’t mind. She liked it. From 
the time she was a baby she wanted to be free, 
to be left alone. She didn’t like a fuss made 
over her.” 

Jerry shook her head, not grasping it. “Chil¬ 
dren,—they never know what they want. But 
you, Mimi, didn’t you want people to know? 
You should have been so proud of Theresa. My 
mother—why she is even proud of me! She— 
when she meets people I have known she likes to 
introduce herself that way,—just, T am Jerry’s 
mother.’ ” 

“I was proud of Theresa,” insisted Mimi. “I 
know how wonderful she was. But—a woman 
can’t stop being a woman just because she has a 
baby, can she? I had my life, my work, my 
lovers. Oh, every one will blame me! But 
Theresa liked her freedom! She should have 
145 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


thought of me before she did this thing,—she 
never thought of me,—Art, always, before every¬ 
thing.” 

“But, Mimi,” Jerry interrupted her, stammer¬ 
ing, “if you are her mother, you must know 
why!” 

“How should I know? She didn’t tell me. 
She should have told me!” 

“Prudence would know,” was all Jerry could 
say to that. 

Mimi lay rigid among the cushions, twisting 
her hands into painful knots, cutting her flesh 
with the gaudy stones. Jerry looked at her,— 
the lavish toss of the hennaed hair, the carefully 
ivoried skin with its layers of cream and rouge, 
the voluptuous figure with its molding of fine 
French stays, 

Jerry saw her in a cloud of artificial lights, 
the center of artificial laughter, flirtations, 
affairs, and intrigues,—saw also the light 
kindliness, the generous delicacy of speech and 
manner, the friendly camaraderie. And she saw 
Theresa dead by her own hand in the undertak- 
146 


AND JERRY SAW PRUDENCE 


ing parlor with flowers in the window, Mietta’s, 
on the corner. 

And then, as poor suffering Mimi faded out, 
Jerry saw Prudence, clear-cut and vivid, saw the 
fine-lined, tender face, the gentle twist of the 
humorous mouth, the laughing, plaintive sym¬ 
pathy of the soft svreet eyes. 

Jerry stared and stared. Her eyes burned 
painfully, her throat throbbed, there was a great 
longing in her heart. 

In that moment. Prudence’s daughter, she ran 
suddenly to Mimi, caught her in her strong, 
tender arms, kissed her, cried over her, fondled 
her, and Mimi, after one slight apologetic, high- 
strained laugh, buried her face in Jerry’s arms 
and broke into helpless weeping. 

Jerry helped her out of the lavish gown, out 
of the confining closeness of the French stays, 
and into a loose light robe. She bathed her 
face, stroked her hair, hung over her with pitiful, 
sweet solicitude. And Mimi clung to her all 
night long, sobbing brokenly, writhing in hyster¬ 
ical anguish, and would not let her go. 

147 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Jerry stayed with Mimi in the house on 
Reilly’s Alley until after the funeral,—Theresa’s 
funeral,—when groups of her brilliant wondering 
friends crowded into the little, flower-filled room 
at Mietta’s to do last honor to her tragic memory, 
and went away again, afterward, slowly, talking 
it over, agreeing that after all, in a way, it seemed 
rather a congruous thing, that such an one as The¬ 
resa, divinely driven, should flash like a meteor 
across a starry sky to fade at once in a final, domi¬ 
nant flash at the height of her brilliance, rather 
than fade away, as many do, into a dull and dod¬ 
dering mediocrity. 

The night after the funeral, Jerry, slipping 
softly down the hall toward Mimi’s room, was 
arrested by the silken, silvery voice. 

“Oh, you bad boy! This is the third,—at six 
dollars a pint!” 

Jerry turned slowly back to her room. She 
was not deceived by that brave resumption of 
the old routine. She knew that Mimi’s heart, 

artificial, shallow though it might be, had suffered 

* 

a grievously cruel shock and she marveled that the 
148 


AND JERRY SAW PRUDENCE 


hollow shell could send back an echo so musical 
to a world that had given her only its bitter dregs. 

Jerry went into her room, pulled out her bags, 
and began at once to pack the things of her 
possession. 

Jerry was going home. 


PART TWO 


CHAPTER I 

THE COMING OF JERRY 

I T WAS a blustering, blizzardy night in early 
March. The state of Iowa lay flat and bare 
under the lash of an angry winter, reluctant to 
loose its hold. Steely bits of ice swirled in the 
path of the wind, and beat with an insistent tinkle 
upon the panes of the windows. 

Inside the Harmer home were quiet warmth 
and cheery light. In the wide fireplace a great 
pine log crackled in gay defiance of wintry wind 
and sleet. At the round table in the dining-room, 
Prudence and Jerrold sat opposite each other 
across a bowl of fragile, Cecil Brunner roses. 

“IPs a nice night to be in,” she said cheerfully. 
She was wondering if Greenwich Village was 
whipped with a gale like this. 

150 


THE COMING OF JERRY 


“Rotten weather to be out,” agreed Jerrold 
absently. He was remembering the dangerous 
rush of taxis, when city streets are glassed with 
ice. 

And so they smiled cheerfully at each other, 
and rejoiced with pleasant words that they were 
warm and bright by the fireplace, with the pine 
log, and the rose-buds, and the candle lights. But 
in their hearts they were trying to assure them¬ 
selves that Jerry was a very alert and self-pos¬ 
sessed young person who could certainly take 
care of herself if anybody could, and what child¬ 
ishness to worry! 

The door-bell sounded suddenly. Upon in¬ 
tense inward thoughts like theirs, even the soft 
reverberation of the most carefully modulated 
electric bell in the world could not sound less 
than clamorous. 

“Such a night!” gasped Prudence at that sud¬ 
den ringing, thinking that a telegraph boy would 
have to face the gale to carry a message. 

Jerrold shoved his chair back quickly from the 
table, and both listened, intent, alert, as Katie 

I5i 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


opened the door. Above the incoherent breath¬ 
lessness of her murmurs of amazement, a fresh 
voice sounded brightly. 

“Where’s mother?” 

And Jerry herself, wrapped in her great fur 
cloak, a soft fur tarn drawn protectingly low 
over her ears, ran in upon them, leaving the maid 
and the driver to handle boxes, bags and trunk as 
best they could. 

“Look who’s here!” she cried, as she caught 
Prudence in her arms. And a moment later she 
went to her father, to be lifted bodily from her 
tiptoes and kissed a dozen times. 

“And you’d better help him with the trunk, 
father,” she said, when she could think of it. 
“It’s terribly heavy!” 

“Your trunk, Jerry!” Prudence was amazed. 
“Did you bring your trunk!” 

“Yes, I brought everything;” Jerry assured her 
gaily. “I’m coming home. I’m moving back!” 

Then she kissed Katie who was hastily laying 
another place on the table and setting a chair for 
her,—which Prudence slyly pulled nearer to hers, 
152 




■^XVw 


“Look who’s here !” 




















* 


f 








V 


L 




J 


1 













I 




9 


* 








» 

























































THE COMING OF JERRY 


and Jerrold whipped back toward his own. And 
very soon they were at the table, three of them 
now, smiling almost tearfully at one another 
across the bowl of Cecil Brunners, with never a 
thought for the dangerous icy streets of Green¬ 
wich Village and New York. 

“But, Jerry, we never dreamed of such a thing; 
why didn’t you tell us! Why didn’t you send us 
word, why—” 

“I didn’t know it myself,” she said. “Just all 
of a sudden I knew I was coming, and here I am. 
You’re looking darling, mother. I’ll bet Katie 
has spoiled you without me here to hold you 
down,—” 

And then she jumped up to kiss Katie, think¬ 
ing she had forgotten her, and out to the kitchen 
to greet Mary,—but not needing to go so far, for 
Mary was just outside the door, peeping joyously 
in upon her. She came back after a moment, 
said she was ravenously hungry, but she did not 
eat. She laughed at her mother, at her father, 
and presently they left the table, and Jerry sat in 
Prudence’s lap,—a ridiculous lap-full for slender 
153 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Prudence,—and laughed at her again. And Pru¬ 
dence showed the few silvering threads in her 
hair, and declared they would all turn brown 
again now that Jerry was home. 

And then Jerry went over and sat sedately in a 
chair to let her mother rest, and Prudence tagged 
across at her heels, and sat on the arm of her 
chair, and told her over and over again how sur¬ 
prised she was, how she had not the slightest sus¬ 
picion of her coming, how it was the last thing in 
the world she had dreamed of. 

“But see here,” remonstrated Jerrold, “you told 
me all the time she would come back. You 
said—” 

Prudence gave him a furious look. “I did 
not,” she declared quite passionately. “Oh, for 
a visit of course,—but to bring all her things and 
stay forever, I never dreamed of such a thing. 
I can’t tell you how surprised I am!” 

“But, Prudence, you said—” 

Prudence glowered him into silence. “Now, 
Jerrold, I know what I said! I knew she would 
come for a visit,—but this is really coming home, 
154 


THE COMING OF JERRY 

and I couldn’t remotely fancy such a lovely 
thing!” 

They went up-stairs, the three of them, to 
Jerry’s lovely room, and Prudence and Jerrold 
stood about, getting in the way, while Jerry 
unpacked the bags, the boxes and the trunk. 
Everything was exhibited, exclaimed over, ad¬ 
mired. 

And while she unpacked she told them of New 
York, of Graves McDowell, and the lessons in 
Art, of Rhoda, and her passionate devotion to 
her work. She told them of lovely Aimee, and 
the trashy column of society scandal she wrote 
for a daily paper. When Prudence asked about 
the girls in the house with her, Theresa, and 
Mimi, Jerry’s lip quivered, her eyes shadowed, 
as she said: 

“I’ll tell you about them after a little. I’m 
coming to that.” 

She told them of her conquests in the city, her 
gay flirtations, her proposals. She showed them 
the little marble faun the Russian sculptor, 
Korzky, had done for her. She exhibited the 
155 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


autographed novels and books of poetry, warmly 
inscribed to her by authors and poets of a dozen 
nationalities. She displayed a hundred little 
testimonies of her triumph in the city,—a triumph 
social, if not artistic. 

“It isn’t the laborers who are slave-driven,” 
she declared warmly. “They don’t need unions 
to protect them. It is a genius union we need,— 
something to keep geniuses from working them¬ 
selves to death. There was a violinist in our 
building,—mother, I tell you truly, that man 
began to work before I was up, and was at it 
every night when I went to bed. There was a 
composer at Rhoda’s,—once I was staying all 
night,—at two o’clock in the morning we heard, 
oh, very softly, a little tripping melody on the 
keys. Rhoda said it happened often,—ran 
through his mind during the night, until he got 
up and worked it out of his system,-—using the 
soft pedal not to disturb the others. There was 
a young writer across the alley from us,—when¬ 
ever I went out, or came in, I could hear that 
dull thud of her typewriter, twelve o’clock, one 
156 


THE COMING OF JERRY 


o’clock, two o’clock. A union for genius, that’s 
the need of the century!” 

At half past two in the morning, Prudence and 
Jerrold were still sitting enraptured, spell-bound, 
on the wide day bed against the wall, listening as 
Jerry talked. And when at last the trunk was 
emptied, she turned slowly to the great crate she 
had brought with her all the way, so carefully, 
so tenderly, and released the safety fastenings on 
the end. Then she drew it out slowly, the 
shadows deepening in her eyes,—Theresa’s gal¬ 
lant Ocean Rider with eyes like Jerry’s own. 

Jerry’s parents stared at it, exclaiming, 
marveling at its beauty. 

“It—it looks like you,” Prudence whispered. 

“The eyes,—they are mine. As they were 
when I went to New York, when she first saw 
me,—Theresa.”—Jerry choked over the words. 
“Let me tell you.” 

She hastily switched out the bright lights, leav¬ 
ing only the one soft Roman candle burning on 
her dressing-table, for Jerry did not wish to pain 
them with the emotion her vivid face could not 
157 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


fail to reveal. And she came across to them, 
piled cushions on the top one of the three steps 
which led up to the raised day bed, and snuggled 
in between them. 

“Do you want me to go out?” Jerrold offered 
generously, feeling that this was to be the climax 
of Jerry’s confidence. 

Jerry smiled at him, drew both his knees im¬ 
pulsively within the clasp of her arm. “Oh, no, 
father, of course not.” 

And then she told them of the house on Reilly’s 
Alley, of Mimi, with the golden hair and the 
silken gowns, of terrible, tragic Theresa in her 
attic room up-stairs. 

“I felt just like a mother toward that girl,” 
she declared brokenly. She told of Theresa’s 
rare talent, of her strange intensity, her impatient, 
impulsive kindliness. 

“Mother, she killed herself.” 

Jerrold let his cigarette go out, lit another 
feverishly, let it go out again. Prudence held 
Jerry in a close arm, weeping with her softly. 
And Jerry talked sadly on and on, told them of 

158 


THE COMING OF JERRY 


Mimi’s pitiful, frivolous life, her wasted mother¬ 
hood. Sometimes as she talked, she lay in Pru¬ 
dence’s lap, crying bitterly, only to sit up again 
with passionate earnestness to go on with the 
tragic tale. 

“The worst of it,—or maybe the best of it,” 
she amended doubtfully, as she tried to shake 
away her tears, “is that I know she is glad of it. 
I can just imagine that gay, defiant laugh of hers, 
as if she had fooled us all,—slipped neatly out of 
a mess and left us looking at—cobwebs on our 
fingers. I can just imagine—in Heaven—she 
would be laughing to think of the joke she had 
played on us. It’s what Theresa would!” 

Jerrold would have gone away then, taking 
Prudence with him, feeling that overwrought and 
highly strained young daughters would do best 
in bed. Prudence, with that tender insight of 
hers that was never known to fail, knew better. 
Jerry was unburdening her heart, finding relief, 
had come to them, as she always came, when the 
things she undertook to do had proved too hard 
for her. And so they stayed on and on, and 
159 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


talked more of Theresa, and presently Jerry was 
talking of other things,—of the mad frenzy that 
goaded all artists to desperation, of their intem¬ 
perate folly, their unbounded love. 

And then she was telling them of Greta Val, 
the little chambermaid, and how Graves Mc¬ 
Dowell was fairly living in her talent, feasting 
his own starved heart on the fuel he fed to hers. 
She told them of her little part in the drama, of 
how she had piled her wealth together, brushes 
and easel and boards, and with a profuse hand 
had tossed them on the unfortunate little tramp 
of the alleys. 

“And what do you think she did? She stood 
up, and glared at me, and slapped me in the face, 
—right here!” 

Jerry could laugh at it now, could laugh, and 
did, particularly at Jerrold’s amazement, at Pru¬ 
dence’s maternal displeasure. 

“What are you going to do now?” Jerrold 
asked at last. 

Jerry clouded again. She did not know. 
“What do other girls do ?” she asked him. “Girls 
160 


THE COMING OF JERRY 


who are not geniuses by birth,—and lucky they 
are, too, if you ask me,—but girls who would go 
mad doing nothing! What do they do?” 

Jerrold cleverly evaded the issue by reaching 
for a cigarette,—a prettily perfumed, gold-tipped 
thing that Jerry had brought in a handsome hand- 
carved box,—a parting gift from a young ad¬ 
mirer,—thus shifting the question to Prudence. 

Prudence was very sober. “I don’t know,” 
she said. “What do you think?” 

They talked of girls, of some who became 
teachers, some who went into the public libraries 
and museums, some into business. 

“That’s all right if you have to earn a living,” 
objected Jerry. “But doesn’t it seem silly to 
work hard at something you don’t care a thing 
about, just to earn a little money you do not 
need? Of course, if one has a real fondness for 
a thing—but I haven’t! I think it would be per¬ 
fectly trashy of me to go down-town and pound 
a typewriter eight hours a day for twenty dollars 
a week—when I don’t adore pounding typewrit¬ 
ers,—and can get the money by asking father.” 

161 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“And besides,” said Prudence, “it would be 
keeping some girl out of a position who does 
need the money.” 

“It’s a great responsibility, having a daughter,” 
Jerrold said, standing up, suddenly shocked to 
know it was after four o’clock. “I’m afraid we 
went into this thing too lightly, Prudence.” 

They all laughed over that, and Jerry kissed 
both parents a warm good night, and closed the 
door behind them. 

In their own room, Jerrold turned to his wife 
to air a grievance that had lurked within his 
memory throughout all the happy evening. 

“See here, Prudence, you did, too, expect Jerry 
to come home to stay. You said all the time she 
would come back.” 

Prudence caught his broad shoulders in her 
two slender hands, and shook him sternly. As a 
measure of discipline it was absurd, for Jerrold 
was tall and strong, and Prudence both slender 
in form and slight in strength. But as expressive 
of her pent-up emotions and representative of her 
scorn for his understanding, it was triumphant. 

162 


THE COMING OF JERRY 


“Oh, Jerrold, will you never learn ?” she 
wailed. “Don’t you know that you must always 
be surprised at a woman?” 

“But you said—” 

“Always be surprised at a woman! It pleases 
her, it flatters her, it makes her feel how very 
unusual she is to do the unexpected thing. Be 
surprised, Jerrold, always be surprised! Women 
love it!” 

“Then you did expect her home!” 

“Of course I did.” Prudence said this with a 
complacent pride in her astuteness. 

“But you said—” 

“Oh, bother what I said. You be a little care¬ 
ful after this, and don’t go about telling every¬ 
thing you hear.” 

“Shades of the Parsonage and John Wesley 
defend us,” he ejaculated devoutly. 

“Oh, well, if it comes to that,” said Prudence, 
“I learned a great many things in the Parsonage 
that John Wesley never heard of!” 


CHAPTER II 


JERRY COMES INTO HER OWN 

J ERRY seemed to settle again into the routine 
of every-day life in her middle western home 
without change. She shared in the work of the 
house as she had done before she went to New 
York, practised her music, read a great deal, and 
drove out very often in the handsome little 
“Harmer” which was her personal possession. 

Her return was hailed with a great lavishness 
of celebration on the part of her friends, for she 
had long been a leader in the particular little set 
she claimed as hers. Immediately she was made 
the occasion for a gay series of dances, dinners 
and parties. Little flirtations, inconsequential 
affaires, which had faded away and died upon 
her departure, struggled back into a semblance of 
rejuvenation on her return, and although they 
failed to stir Jerry to active interest, at least they 
played their part in whiling away the hours, and 
164 


JERRY COMES INTO HER OWN 


helping to occupy her thoughts, which were not 
happy ones for the most part. 

Even with so much to amuse and engage her, 
the days passed slowly, and Jerry, for all the 
demands on her time, remained distrait and pre¬ 
occupied, almost listless. And Prudence drove 
herself well-nigh to distraction in her maternal 
anxiety to bridge the dangerous chasm between 
times past and times present, but all in vain she 
racked her fertile brain for things to stimulate 
Jerry’s interest. 

“Oh, my dear, you haven’t taught me to dance 
for nearly two years!” she exclaimed one night, 
in the extreme of desperation. 

Jerrold and Jerry broke into laughter over her 
abject submission to martyrdom for her daugh¬ 
ter’s sake. For Prudence found in dancing noth¬ 
ing but punishment and tribulation. 

Married life for her had been an intricate and 
delicate matter at best, having as she did the 
sacred shadow of Methodism for a background. 
The church itself had been the first shadow to 
cloud the heaven of their domestic harmony. 
165 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Church, to Prudence, meant Methodist, and Jer¬ 
rold, in the ardor of his young love, attended 
services with her in the beginning with some fair 
display of interest. His enthusiasm, however, was 
for Prudence only, not for the church of her affil¬ 
iation. 

When she asked him how he liked it he said: 
“Oh, very much,” to please Prudence. 

After a time, growing suspicious as to the 
depth of this interest, she pressed him further. 
Jerrold admitted at last that as far as he was 
concerned, he considered it no church at all, no 
real worship, no divine service. Prudence was 
shocked into speechlessness. But Jerrold, hard 
driven, stuck to his ground. He said the way 
the Methodists clubbed about the door and chatted 
and laughed was his idea of rank irreverence. 
And for a preacher to get down on his knees in 
the pulpit and talk in that offhand and familiar 
fashion to the Divine Being instead of reading 
respectfully from a book,—he called it sacrilege. 
He was willing to go, to please Prudence, he was 
willing to shake hands, and discuss his wife’s 
166 



JERRY COMES INTO HER OWN 


health and the state fair and the corn crop at the 
door,—to please her,—he was willing to follow 
through countless intimate paragraphs of extem¬ 
poraneous prayer,—but he did not call it church, 
and it was not his idea of worship. 

Prudence wrote to her father. And her father 
wrote back, with that gentle and forbearing 
patience which seems more rare and more divine 
in the ministry than anywhere else, that Prudence 
must go with her husband. “We have learned,” 
he wrote, “that there are lessons in stones, and 
sermons in running brooks. So if Jerrold finds 
no religion in our church, it is up to you to find it 
in his.” 

Prudence swallowed hard, but she did it. 

It was not, as Jerrold frankly admitted, that he 
cared particularly about attending any church 
with a painful degree of assiduity, but when he 
had church, he wanted church, and not a Sunday¬ 
morning reception without refreshments. 

Of course Prudence had to learn to dance. 
Having become an Episcopalian she could not 
plead the Methodist Discipline in rebuttal, and 
167 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


thus unexpectedly torn adrift from her spiritual 
backbone, she agreed with Jerrold, rather faintly, 
that it would be a shame for her to go through 
life sitting out every enticing waltz and luring 
one-step. She must certainly learn to dance. 

She encountered difficulties from the start. A 
professional instructor was brought in to teach 
her. And after many painful, painstaking lessons, 
she managed to get around very nicely. But when 
Prudence, in fear and trembling, got on the floor 
with any other than the instructor, she had 
trouble. 

“It isn’t that I don’t try” she told her husband 
despairingly, but eager in her own defense in the 
face of his derision, “I do try! I put my whole 
mind on it. I know exactly what I am supposed 
to do, I count every step, and I never listen to a 
word my partner says, and I keep both eyes shut 
so I won’t be afraid of running into the wall! 
But I can’t keep off his fe$t, nor from under 
them. You needn’t laugh, either, for I can’t 
help it.” 

When Jerry had come of an age to take a per- 
168 


JERRY COMES INTO HER OWN 


sonal interest in her mother’s social life, and to 
feel a personal responsibility for her public ap¬ 
pearance, she shared this burden with her father. 
And at regular intervals, perhaps twice a year, 
the entire household was thrown into a tumultu¬ 
ous state of excitement with teaching Prudence 
to dance. 

“Why can’t you dance? Why can’t you?” de¬ 
manded Jerry earnestly. “Aunt Fairy dances 
beautifully, Aunt Connie dances, both the Twin 
Aunties adore it. Haven’t they as much Meth¬ 
odist blood as you have ? Why can’t you learn ?” 

“I don’t know,” acknowledged her mother un¬ 
happily. “I certainly work hard enough to- learn 
anything! I just can’t, and that’s all there is 
to it.” 

When Prudence, therefore, of her own voli¬ 
tion and without coercion from any one, volun¬ 
tarily proffered herself as a willing sacrifice to 
learn to dance again, she was driven to despera¬ 
tion. To her surprise, to her great concern as 
well, Jerry only laughed, and would not accept 
such martyrdom at her hands. 

169 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Nonsense, mother, you can’t dance, and you 
don’t want to. Why bother? You’d better 
just stick to Wesley and eschew the devil and all 
his works.” 

“Bridge then,” pleaded Prudence hopefully. 
“You really ought to teach me something, you 
know.” 

Jerry consented to add a few final touches to 
a course in cards which had already extended 
futilely over a period of twenty years, but she 
warned her mother to let no one inveigle her into 
playing for points. 

“For do your level best, mother, you can still 
lose the family fortune a great deal faster than 
father can earn it, if you go in for points, the way 
you play it.” 

And so March blustered away, and April came, 
and May. And in all these months Jerry could 
not fathom that great mystery of what girls do, 
who have nothing to do, and go quite mad over 
doing it! 

The thing that struck Jerry most forcibly when 
she thought about it later on, was how affairs of 
170 


JERRY COMES INTO HER OWN 


such portentous moment hinge upon such idle 
trivialities. 

It was a morning late in May when she was 
called to the telephone. A girl of her acquaint¬ 
ance, Rae Forsythe, was going over to the other 
side of town to look at a house. She asked Jerry 
to go with her. Jerry, who had driven her own 
car from the time she was fifteen years old, was 
used to these invitations to go with her friends 
on errands to remote and inaccessible places. 
Jerry understood it very well, but her understand¬ 
ing was quite without malice. She did not blame 
them. She was sure if she had to go a long way 
to a strange part of town, and had no car of her 
own, she herself would invite as company for the 
occasion — one who had. 

So she accepted the invitation very sweetly, 
and said she would stop by for Rae in the car, 
about eleven o’clock. 

She knew that Rae was going to be married in 
the fall, and that her father had given her ten 
thousand dollars to provide a bridal home. And 
this expedition, as she surmised, was in search of 
171 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


a house. She picked up her friend at the desig¬ 
nated hour, and turned her car buoyantly to the 
north side of the city. 

“But why go away out there, Rae? It’s a 
crazy place to look for a house,” she protested. 

“Yes, but property is so much cheaper. We 
want to get house and furniture all for ten thou¬ 
sand, you see. And then, Grant has bought a 
drug-store out by the university, and it will be 
much nicer for him. He can come home for 
luncheon,” she explained with the pretty pro¬ 
prietary shyness of pre-nuptial days. 

Following Rae’s directions, Jerry drove slowly 
out along Central Avenue and turned down 
Seventeenth Street. When they came to the 
house, she stopped the car, and both girls turned 
about in their seats and looked at it. 

It was not prepossessing. Set entirely too far 
forward in a small lawn at the top of a steep 
terrace, it stood very stiff, very square, very 
high, with an awkward square porch, clumsy 
square windows, the whole in grievous need of 
paint. 


172 


JERRY COMES INTO HER OWN 


“Will you tell me,” Jerry said plaintively, “why 
my Iowa builds itself such ghastly homes ?” 

“He said it was a bam of a thing,” assented 
Rae. “But it is very cheap. He said—the real- 
estate man, I mean—said it could be entirely built 
over for a few thousand. And it has good points, 
a garage in the back when we get rich enough 
for a car,—just opposite the little park you see,— 
on the car line,—and quite near the university 
and Grant's drug-store.” 

With these points to its credit, Jerry followed 
her distastefully up the steep steps of the terrace, 
and still more distastefully on the clumsy, stiff, 
square porch. 

“Why do they do it, Rae?” she wondered. 
“Such stiff, straight, stupid lines,—the doors, the 
windows, the columns. Couldn’t they put a little 
curve in once in a while for the same money?” 

“Beauty is very expensive,” said Rae lightly. 

“No wonder we all go off somewhere, to Cali¬ 
fornia, or to New York, if this is the best we can 
do for ourselves,” Jerry went on gloomily. “I 
don’t blame us. Fancy living in a thing like this! 
173 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Not just one either,—all the inexpensive poor- 
man houses are exactly like it. The gipsies do 
better in tents.” 

“Oh, bother the gipsies, Jerry; come on in and 
have a look.” Rae opened the door with the key 
which had been given her, and led the way inside 
where they stared curiously about them, a frown¬ 
ing disapproval on their two young faces. 

“People must have lived in it some time,” said 
Jerry. “Probably they died, poor things. I 
don’t wonder.” 

The house was divided with scrupulous exact¬ 
ness into four sections, rooms Jerry decided one 
must doubtless call them,—to the left a stiff 
square parlor leading to a stiff square parlor bed¬ 
room beyond,—to the right a solemn dining¬ 
room, with a sober kitchen adjoining. The stairs 
rose in a direct and businesslike manner, without 
pretense or artifice, to the second floor, where 
there was another mathematical division of space, 
a bedroom, a bath to the left, two bedrooms to 
the right. 

Jerry stared and stared. “Wouldn’t you think 
174 


JERRY COMES INTO HER OWN 


they must have died, Rae ?” she asked. “It would 
be like living in a cemetery, wouldn’t it? 
Wouldn’t you think that some time one of them 
would have taken a hammer to those walls, just 
to break the deadly continuity of the thing? 
Poor corpses, I don’t blame you a bit. I think 
you’re lucky.” 

Rae laughed at her. “You are funny, Jerry. 
But it is a horrid old barn of a house, isn’t it? 
But then they are only asking thirty-five hundred 
for it.” 

“Cheap enough unless one has to live in it,” 
murmured Jerry. “I hold it against the state, 
Rae,” she went on. “I almost wish I had been 
born in Arkansas, or Nevada, or Wyoming.” 

“Don’t blame the state,” protested Rae. “Peo¬ 
ple don’t have to live in this particular house 
unless they wish.” 

“But the whole street is like it. And the next 
one is worse, and the next still worse. Oh, some 
few houses are nice enough, I suppose, but in the 
main—hopeless! Our own used to be a funny, 
straight-up-and-down thing, too. We have pic- 
175 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


tures of it. They built it over when I was a 
baby. No, it is the state, Rae. We get that 
straight up^and-do wnness from the corn, I 
fancy.” 

Rae, intent upon her search for a home for her¬ 
self and her young pharmacist, paid slight atten¬ 
tion to her friend’s plaintive ramblings. She 
looked about her, with growing disfavor. And 
while she looked, Jerry stood in the doorway, and 
stared with ever-increasing amazement about the 
place. 

“It couldn’t be a home, you know,” she said to 
herself. “It might do as a garage, even as a 
stable if one didn’t love one’s horses. One could 
call them stalls,—dinner stall, sleeping stall, cook¬ 
ing stall,—it’s the way they look. And you know 
really it wouldn’t be so hard to—sort of—switch 
things around a little—knock out a wall or two— 
twist that staircase about some way—and— 
and—” 

Jerry’s eyes narrowed speculatively. She drew 
vague little designs in the air with a gloved finger. 
A curious brightness came into her face. 

176 


JERRY COMES INTO HER OWN 


“It is impossible,” Rae said, coming back from 
her inspection. “I wouldn’t have it as a gift.” 

“Thirty-five hundred. Is that what you said? 
Can I get it on terms? Let’s go down right 
away. I have an idea.” 


CHAPTER III 


THE SUMMER PASSES 

P RUDENCE and Jerrold had finished the 
soup and were starting with steak and pota¬ 
toes when Jerry ran in that night, profusely 
apologetic for her tardiness. Her face was aflame 
with color, her starry eyes aglow behind the 
fringing lashes. 

“Awfully stupid of me to be so late,” she cried, 
tossing her gloves and hat upon a chair, and slid¬ 
ing deftly into her place at the table. “No soup 
for me, Katie. But be generous with the steak.” 
She glowed around at her little family. “Eve 
been having a heavenly time, mother,—almost as 
exciting as teaching you to dance again. And 
that reminds me,”—Jerry put her knife down 
and turned about, facing her father. “I’ll have 
to borrow some money, father,—I don’t know 
just how much,—a thousand or so. Will you 
lend it to me?” 


x;8 


THE SUMMER PASSES 


Jerrold was working with a refractory bit of 
sirloin and did not answer upon the instant. 

“I will,” proffered Prudence meekly. 

“It’s awfully good of you, mother, but I think 
I’d better get it from father. This is business, 
you see, and it’s impossible to be real businesslike 
with you, you’re such a lamb. Of course, father, 
I can give you a—a mortgage on the 'Baby/ ” 
Jerry always called her pretty roadster the 
“Baby.” The first had been just “Baby,” the sec¬ 
ond was “Baby Junior,” and this latest and finest 
one of all was tenderly known as “The Third.” 
“I can give you a mortgage on her, but I’m 
going to be awful busy, and I’ll have to use her 
just the same.” 

“It might be interesting to know what you’re 
going to do with it,—the money, I mean,” her 
father put in gently, when she paused for breath. 
“Not that it’s any of my business, of course.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind telling,—not in the least” 
Jerry was impulsively generous. She pushed her 
plate back a little and launched into a graphic ac¬ 
count of the day’s excursion with Rae in quest 
179 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


of a honeymoon home. She described the “great 
grotesque barn of a thing” on Seventeenth Street 
opposite Good Park in no mild manner. 

“Rae simply wouldn’t give it a second look,” 
she finished. “But you know, father, it looked 
pretty good to me. Lots of advantages, Rae 
said so herself,—right opposite the park, on the 
car line, near the university,—and lumber in it, 
heaps of lumber! Well, I got to figuring. You 
could pull out a few walls, and build in a few 
windows, and switch things around a little bit, 
and paint it, and—sort of fuss it up,—I figured 
out a hundred things that one could do to it. 
Well, you can buy it for thirty-five hundred, 
spend say another thirty-five hundred in making 
it look human,—and I’ll bet you could sell that 
place for Ten Thousand Dollars!” 

Jerrold was buttering his roll. 

“I’m sure of it,” agreed Prudence. 

“But why bother?” asked Jerrold, after a little. 
“Why go to all that trouble, and work, and ex¬ 
pense—” 

Jerry w*as amazed at his stupidity. “Oh, a 

lBo 



THE SUMMER PASSES 


dozen reasons, father! In the first place, Iowa 
ought to be ashamed of itself for permitting such 
a lot of these stupid, stiff, square houses, that no 
human being could possibly fit into. Well, then, 
it would make a lovely and adorable little spot of 
a place that is now simply an eye-sore and a—a 
civic ulcer, as you might say. And once you get 
a real sweet, dainty home up there, it’s going to 
make the rest of the block ashamed of itself, and 
first thing you know they’ll all be dolling up a 
little bit, to keep up with Lizzie. ’Scuse the 
slang, mother,—I’m so excited. And besides”— 
Jerry’s voice rose triumphantly—“think of me! 
I’m going to make a couple of thousand dollars 
on that job!” 

Jerrold looked at her. “I thought you didn’t 
see any sense in making money you don’t need 
just—” 

“Oh, this is a different thing! This is—well. 
I’m doing something for the money! I’ve got a 
right to the money if I earn it. It’s—don’t you 
see how it is, mother?” 

“Of course I do.” 

181 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“And think of the poor old house,” Jerry 
finished pathetically. “After all these years of 
being a bam, and a blot on the landscape, just 
think how it will feel to wake up some morning 
and find it is pretty, and lovely, and that people 
are stopping in the street to exclaim over it! 
Think how you’d feel if you were a house.” 

Jerrold considered that too much of a strain 
on a business imagination like his, but he finally 
agreed that it was a sound practical proposition, 
and if Jerry had made up her mind to it, he 
thought it might turn out rather nicely all around. 
And he would go with her the very next day to 
look it over, and get figures on it, and if it 
seemed all she said, they would buy it and pitch in. 

“Buy it!” Jerry repeated, in great surprise. 
“It is bought! I bought it this afternoon. I 
gave him my five hundred dollars, and I don’t 
have to make another payment for three months, 
and I figure that by that time I ought to have it 
looking like pretty much of a place. What I 
want the money from you for, is to begin tearing 
things down.” 

182 


THE SUMMER PASSES 


When dinner was over, Jerry looked regret¬ 
fully at the waning light. She should have liked 
to dash her father and mother out to look at the 
house right away, but it was too dark. So she 
pulled out all the old House Beautifuls, and 
spread them over the dining-room table, and 
worked feverishly with a pencil and a pad of 
paper, sketching out little nooks and comers as 
she intended having them in her finished product. 

“Lucky thing I studied Art, after all,” she 
said brightly to her mother. “I never thought 
I’d find such a real practical use for all that 
nonsense.” 

Prudence hung over her with pleased solici¬ 
tude, charmed with her avid interest, agreeing 
with every word she uttered. 

“I may not make such a lot on this one,” Jerry 
admitted later rather reluctantly to Jerrold. 
“Because I don’t know how to figure down the 
expenses of it. But with the experience I get on 
this one, I’ll make a killing of the next.” 

“What do you mean, ‘the next’? Is this the 
first of a series?” 


183 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Jerry pulled herself up, surprised. “That was 
a funny thing to say,” she admitted. “I hadn’t 
thought of a next one.” She went on brightly, 
“But of course you can see that I must not waste 
all this experience, and if I can make a little on 
the first I can make heaps more on the second. 
So when you come to think of it, of course this 
is just the beginning.” 

As Jerrold had grown older, had learned to 
entrust his affairs to others in his employ, he had 
gradually fallen into a way of going steadily later 
to the office, so that now it was customary in the 
home to have breakfast at nine o’clock, after 
which Jerrold took his own time about getting 
off. But on the morning after Jerry discovered 
her passion, he found himself a tardy member of 
the household. Jerry pounded on the bathroom 
door three times while he was shaving, urging 
him to make haste, and when he hurried down at 
last, to show her indignantly that it then wanted 
ten minutes of the hour, she said: 

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I told them we’d 
have breakfast at eight-thirty.” 

184 


THE SUMMER PASSES 


That was the beginning of Jerry’s most fever¬ 
ish month. She bargained with contractors, 
plumbers and builders. She studied designs, she 
puzzled over matching colors. And in the end, 
the house of dreams that evolved from her tender 
thoughts was built on most engaging lines. Jerry 
was nothing if not thorough. The stiff steep 
steps leading up to her house from the street had 
met with destruction first of all, and in their place 
developed a pretty stair that “went on the bias,” 
as she said, angling up the green terrace in a most 
inviting manner, and then drifted up to the 
veranda which was extended around the house to 
the left, while the stiff square windows and the 
stiff oblong door in front were torn out for a 
sweep of graceful French windows. 

The awkward square parlor and parlor bed¬ 
room, comprising the left-hand portion of the 
first floor, were thrown together to make a broad 
living-room, with window-seats all the way 
around and shelves for books and handsome built- 
in cabinets. The staircase which had so particu¬ 
larly annoyed her was completely thrown into 

185 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


the discard, and a very broad one erected in its 
stead, rising from a wide base in the rear of the 
living-room and turning itself about ill some curi¬ 
ous fashion finally to reach the top, where the 
changes were yet more drastic. One sleeping 
room was entirely done away with, to be trans¬ 
formed into a pretty informal sitting-room or 
lounge at the head of the stairs, a novel and 
engaging version of an exaggerated hall. 

Jerry felt she had never been so happy, and 
she had never worked so hard in all her life. In¬ 
deed, never before had she really worked at all, 
because her efforts had not before been kindled 
to consuming flame with that spark of the inner 
ego. 

She encountered many obstacles. Indeed, many 
times she was appalled by them. It was hard 
for her to believe that human beings like herself 
could be so grossly stupid as to misunderstand 
and misinterpret instructions so plainly, so 
lucidly, so painstakingly given. She was amazed 
to learn that laborers, regardless of the delicacy 
of the work on which they were engaged, regard- 
186 


THE SUMMER PASSES 


less of the imperative need of haste, regardless of 
the honor that was theirs in assisting to beautify 
and ennoble and elevate an inherent weakness in 
the structure of their own home town, would drop 
a shovel on the stroke of the hour, and would 
even walk sturdily out on strike for a trivial 
detail they called a principle, but which to her 
seemed a flagrant breach of contract. 

She was pained and bewildered to discover 
that her carefully matured plans, set down in 
consistent black and white, signed, agreed to, and 
included in the financial estimates of the con¬ 
tractors, turned out to be not at all as she had 
intended, and that she was obliged to replan, re¬ 
figure and reallow in order to develop her cher¬ 
ished dreams to concrete fact. And she was 
especially shocked and upset to find that there 
were things that a lather, in loyalty to his labor¬ 
ing brothers, would flatly decline to do, things a 
plumber would wash his hands of, things a plas¬ 
terer would openly sneer at, things a bricklayer 
would consider an insult to his profession,—and 
thus oblige her to deal with a totally new organ- 
187 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


ization of workmen to meet the exigencies of the 
case. 

And she found the cost of her work mounted 
heaven-ward on soaring wings, and that her an¬ 
ticipated earnings sank with a corresponding 
ratio. In spite of her natural easy generosity, 
she soon found herself dickering constantly over 
trifles, arguing with great heat, even with anger, 
trying to cut down a dollar or so here, grudgingly 
allowing a dollar or so there, where she felt the 
expenditure must not be denied. 

“Why, I have to argue over fifty cents like any 
street peddler,” she said to her father plaintively, 
regretting this new but necessary niggardliness 
of hers. “Already they’ve forced me up and up 
much farther than I intended. Why, if I don’t 
stand up for my rights, I won’t make five hun¬ 
dred dollars on the whole business! And the way 
I’ve worked over it!” 

“Oh, I thought you did not care about making 
money,” he said. “I thought you said there was 
no nobility in the simple earning of a dollar 
or so.” 


188 


THE SUMMER PASSES 


“In the bare earning of it,—there isn’t. But 
this is a different matter altogether.” 

Jerry was joyously, mysteriously, passionately 
happy. She told herself quite often that she had 
entirely forgotten Duane Allerton, that she had 
entirely forgiven him for his vulgar insolence. 
And she worked harder than ever. Within a 
month she took an option on another wretched 
little hovel, four-roomed, moth-eaten, run down 
at the corners, a disgrace to its street, and im¬ 
mediately began getting estimates for its rebuild¬ 
ing, and making roseate sketches of its future 
estate. 

Jerrold had taken her to his bank in the be¬ 
ginning of her business adventuring and obtained 
for her an audience with the president, Irvin 
Weatherby, a member of Jerrold’s club and his 
particular friend. Jerrold was extremely busi¬ 
nesslike on this occasion. 

“I know you have met my daughter, Jerry,” 
he said, “but I want you to get in touch with her 
in a professional way as well. She is going into 
business for herself, and I am starting her off 
189 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


with a checking account of three thousand dol¬ 
lars, but should like for you to extend her an 
additional credit of two thousand if she needs 
it.” 

Jerry explained her business interest with the 
impulsive eagerness of her youth. And Irvin 
Weatherby looked at her, nodded his approval, 
sighed dismally at her father. 

“Ain’t girls the darnedest, any more?” he 
asked plaintively. ‘‘That second daughter of 
mine, Emily—know what the little fool’s doing? 
Secretary to a dairy-man over in Chicago, 
twenty-five a week, and crazy about it. Says 
she won’t be dependent on any man for a living, 
father or what-not. I hope to God she gets mar¬ 
ried, that’s all I’ve got to say.” 

Jerry laughed at his concern. "Took at Judge 
Daniel’s daughter. Clerking in the ten-cent! 
You ought to be glad you drew nothing worse 
than a secretary,—you might have got a laun¬ 
dress or—an Art Trailer.” 

Jerry still insisted, when she thought of it, that 
she would not work for the sake of acquiring 
190 


THE SUMMER PASSES 


money,—she could get that from her father. 
But she sat up nights figuring how she could cut 
down the expenses of her business. 

“That’s a different thing,” she always said. 
“The only way you can tell how you’re getting 
along is by how much you make.” 

In July she started work on the second cottage, 
impatient to get it into human, habitable shape 
before the coming of winter. And in August she 
took an option, endorsed by her father, on a 
huge, six-storied rooming-house for women, the 
veriest skeleton of a house as Jerry saw houses, 
built with no more regard for esthetic satisfac¬ 
tion than a freight train, but with accommoda¬ 
tions for two hundred women. 

Jerry worked feverishly over that with a pencil 
and a pad of paper. If she rented two hundred 
rooms, at an average of thirty dollars a month, 
the earnings of the house would be six thousand 
a month. If she paid twelve thousand for the 
house, spent five thousand making it what she 
called fit to live in, allowed a running expense of 
perhaps a thousand a month prior to making a 
191 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


sale outright—Jerry’s figures turned to aureate 
dreams. 

She told her father she would bet any amount 
he wished that she could sell the house it was 
going to be for twenty-five thousand dollars. 
Jerrold agreed with her. Prudence said she 
knew right from the beginning that Jerry was 
right. So she bought the house, and in her new 
absorption in estimates, plans and figures, fell 
into a way of forgetting to go home for meals 
at proper hours, and lost a preposterous amount 
of sleep in her efforts. 

Jerry had returned to Iowa in March. It was 
early in September when she had her first letter 
from Rhoda La Faye. Rhoda was brisk and to 
the point, in correspondence as well as in person. 
Her letter consisted of three paragraphs. The 
first told Jerry how very much she, Rhoda, loved 
her, missed her, admired her. The second told 
her that she, Rhoda, had just been awarded the 
scholarship by the Academy for her picture, and 
was leaving the first of October for a year’s study 
and travel through the art centers of Europe. 

192 


THE SUMMER PASSES 


The third said that Duane Allerton, whom per¬ 
haps Jerry would remember, had lost all his 
money in a terrible crash in Wall Street, that the 
poor fellow was completely broke, down and out, 
and up against it, as recorded in the daily papers, 
that he did not know where to turn for the next 
meal, and was said to be looking for a job, but 
of course couldn’t get one because he did not 
know how to do anything. And wasn’t it a 
shame, a nice fellow like Duane? And now he 
would probably become a tramp and a bum like 
other nice young fellows who are left money 
they don’t know how to take care of. And with 
oceans and heaps of love— 

Rhoda enclosed voluminous clippings from the 
daily press of New York to substantiate the last 
two paragraphs of her letter. There were photo¬ 
graphs of her prize-winning picture, of Rhoda 
herself, and columns in praise of her and of her 
work. Jerry ungratefully tossed them to the 
floor. There were other and more sensational 
clippings recounting the financial troubles of 
young Duane Allerton and his desperate plight, 
193 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


with a tragically penciled sketch showing him, 
down at the heels, treading the rails as he would 
doubtless be a few years hence. Jerry read every 
one of them. She was trembling. She knew 
that was because she was a tender-hearted girl, 
and even in her own bitterness of disillusionment, 
could feel but sorry for the misfortune of any 
human being. The thought of a young man— 
any young man—alone in New York, not know¬ 
ing where to turn for the next meal, where to lay 
his head at night,—Jerry had read of the miser¬ 
able ones who sat on the benches in Central Park 
all night,—and winter coming on,—it struck chill 
to her gentle heart. 

She hastily pulled out a pad of paper and wrote 
a letter. 


“My dear Mr. Allerton: 

“A letter from my friend, Rhoda La Faye, 
enclosing newspaper clippings, has just informed 
me of your disaster on Wall Street. Rhoda says 
you are unable to get a position, and are without 
funds. My father is an automobile manufacturer 
and employs a great many men. If you care to 
come to the Middle West, he will be glad to give 
194 


THE SUMMER PASSES 


you some kind of position. I do not know what 
kind of work it will be, nor how much you can 
earn, but at least it will take care of you until 
you can get on your feet again. If you have not 
the money to pay for your ticket, wire me collect, 
and my father will send it by telegraph. 

“It is only fair to warn you that you may have 
to work pretty hard, for while my father is the 
kindest man in the world, he believes that every 
man should earn his wages. 

“Sincerely yours, 

“Geraldine Harmer.” 


CHAPTER IV 


AND JERRY DISPOSES 

O NE lovely September morning, at eleven 
o’clock, a smartly dressed young man 
stepped briskly into the offices of the Harmer 
Motor Company. He held his soft gray hat in 
his hand, and smiled, as he said he wished to see 
Mr. Harmer, if you please. The charm of his 
manner was not lost upon the young girl at the 
desk, who told him with real regret that Mr. 
Harmer was in a very important conference, and 
had left word that he did not wish to be disturbed. 
She professed her entire willingness to produce 
any other person connected with the establish¬ 
ment who could be of any possible interest to 
him. But the young man shook his head. He 
said he must see Mr. Harmer in person, and 
should very much appreciate the earliest possible 
moment,—consistent with Mr. Harmer’s con¬ 
venience, of course. 


196 


AND JERRY DISPOSES 


The girl said she would see, and what name, 
please ? 

“Duane Allerton, from New York City.” 

She smiled. She had been expecting “New 
York City” from the moment she noted his 
entrance. She went away and came back almost 
at once, saying that Mr. Harmer was very busy 
indeed, and that another hour, or indeed another 
day would suit him better,—but recommending 
the services of his business manager, who was 
available at the moment. 

Duane considered that report. He took a let¬ 
ter from his pocket. 

“Will you give this to Mr. Harmer/’ he asked 
pleasantly, “and tell him that I will return at any 
hour, or any day, he cares to designate? But I 
prefer not to see the business manager, unless he 
insists.” 

The girl smiled, and went away with the letter, 
curiously studying the address on the envelope. 
She was gone some time. There was something 
like awe in her face when she came back and said 
Mr. Harmer was waiting for Mr. Allerton in his 
197 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


private office. She pointed the way, and Duane 
Allerton, the soft gray hat still in his hand, a 
light of deep amusement in his dark eyes, opened 
the door and walked in. 

Jerrold was standing up, the letter in his hand 
and the two men studied each other with equal 
interest. Jerrold put out his hand. 

“Pm sorry I kept you waiting,” he said, indi¬ 
cating an easy chair close to his own. “In 
apology, may I explain that the young woman, 
my daughter, did not evidently deem it necessary 
to mention this little—er—invitation, to me?” 

“Do you mean to say you didn’t know—” 

“Not the slightest suggestion of a hint. It is 
news to me.” 

Duane broke into a short pleased laugh, and 
Jerrold after a puzzled, anxious moment joined 
him. 

“I like that!” Duane said. 

Jerrold shoved a box of cigarettes toward him. 
Each took one and lit it in silence. Duane leaned 
back comfortably in his chair, and smiled at his 
host. But Jerrold, under cover of the cigarette, 
198 


AND JERRY DISPOSES 


was sharply appraising, remarking the dapper 
smartness of Duane’s clothes, the weave, the 
tailoring, the studied niceness of colors and tones. 

“Do you want a job?” he asked, hopeful of a 
refusal. 

“Yes, please.” 

“What can you do?” 

“Lord knows.” 

“Know anything about cars?” 

“I can drive them.” 

“How old are you?” 

“Twenty-seven.” 

“How long has your father been dead ?” 

“Twelve years.” 

Jerrold faced him shrewdly. “Are you as 
badly off as my daughter seems to believe ?” 

Duane hesitated. “Well, perhaps not quite. I 
didn’t lose as much as the papers said. Didn’t 
have that much.” 

“Then your father died when you were fifteen. 
My impression would be that a man who could 
earn a fortune, would hardly entrust his son’s 
entire future to his own disposal,—at fifteen.” 

199 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Duane flushed a little. “I hope you won’t be 
such a poor sport as to tell your daughter that. 
As a matter of fact, I lost more than I could 
afford to,—but my father tied up enough to take 
care of me, however much of a fool I might turn 
out.” 

Jerrold laughed, but sobered quickly. If then 
it had not been financial need which brought this 
city youth to the Middle West,—it was a matter 
far more serious. His heart sank within him. 
He thought of Prudence and her happiness in 
having Jerry with her. 

"I’ll call her up,” he volunteered. And when 
he had his daughter on the wire, he said cheer¬ 
fully: 

"Oh, by the way, Jerry, I have a young man 
from New York^here looking for a job—letter 
from you as a recommendation.” 

Jerrold waited. He waited until he realized 
that his daughter had nothing to say on the sub¬ 
ject. 

"Well, what shall I do with him? Shall I 
bring him up to the house ?” 


200 


AND JERRY DISPOSES 


And then suddenly there came such a torrent 
of tumultuous words over the wire as caused 
Jerrold to gasp with dismay, while confusion and 
consternation spread over his kindly face. Pres¬ 
ently a sharp click on the wire informed him that 
the conversation was at an end. He hung up the 
receiver. There was a deepening anxiety in his 
face as he said: 

“My daughter says— Do you want to know 
what my daughter says?” 

“Very much.” 

“I am pained to report that my daughter says 
if I bring you near the house she’ll shut the door 
on both of us, that you came here for a job and I 
am to give you a job, and the harder you have to 
work the better it will be for you, but that per¬ 
sonally she hasn’t the slightest interest in you or 
in what becomes of you, as long as you keep out 
of her sight.” 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Duane, and could 
say no more. 

“Both of us,” corroborated Jerry’s father 
gently. 


201 


PRUDENCE'S DAUGHTER 


This turn of affairs burdened Jerrold with the 
entire responsibility for the young man. He did 
not like it. He didn’t know what to do with 
him. He wished Jerry might have been more 
communicative about her impulses before she 
yielded to them. He thought she might at least 
have discussed the affairs of the Harmer Motor 
Company with its official head before she in¬ 
volved the establishment in foreign complications 
of such portentous magnitude. 

“Do you like the Middle West?” he asked 
weakly, remembering his duties as host, although 
he felt very much as if he had suddenly become 
the troubled owner of a white elephant placed in 
his Christmas stocking by some misguided well- 
wisher. 

“Never saw it,” said Duane Allerton. And 
then, suddenly feeling that perhaps some slight 
explanation was due this plainly harassed father, 
he went on: “You see, Mr. Harmer, I tried to— 
well, flirt a little—with your daughter in New 
York. And she didn’t like it.” 

“Oh, didn’t she?” Jerrold was surprised. He 


202 


AND JERRY DISPOSES 


shot a quick look at the young man. He was 
very good to look at, even to perturbed and 
troubled Jerrold. He was inclined to doubt the 
sincerity of his daughter’s dislike. 

“But she does flirt,” Duane went on positively. 
“Everybody said so. And besides, I saw her my¬ 
self. But she seemed to single me out for her 
resentment. For no good reason, as far as I 
could make out.” 

“Wait a minute. I’ll call her up again and tell 
her she can’t do these things.” Jerrold spoke 
quite sternly. But when he got the number, it 
was Prudence’s voice that answered. She said 
that Jerry had gone wildly away in the “Baby,” 
and didn’t know when she would come home, and 
if her father brought any strange young men 
around the house she’d never be home. 

“See here,” said Jerrold sharply, glad it was 
Prudence, with whom it was much easier to be 
stem than with imperturbable Jerry. “You should 
have told me about this.” 

Prudence professed her complete and absolute 
ignorance of it, at which her husband felt some- 
203 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


what better. It was always a source of griev¬ 
ance to him when Prudence knew things first. He 
began to feel quite gratified because he had been 
selected for the brunt of the burden. 

“Oh, it must have been a shock to you,” he 
said sympathetically. 

“Not a bit. I knew there was a man in it 
somewhere.” 

“How did you know that ? Did she tell 
you—” 

“She told me nothing. I knew by the way she 
looked.” 

“Well, what shall I do with him? I don’t 
know what to do with him! I don’t think he 
knows how to work,—and he doesn’t want to 
work anyhow. What shall I—” 

“I don’t know,” said Prudence cleverly. 
“What do you think?” 

When Prudence said that, both Jerrold and 
Jerry stepped warily, afraid of blundering. It 
was Prudence’s way of getting herself out of a 
tight place. With those few words she could 
shift the entire responsibility for any matter in 
204 


AND JERRY DISPOSES 


the cosmic universe and lay all consequential 
blame on other, stronger shoulders. 

Jerrold hung up the receiver and faced the 
White Elephant grimly. The White Elephant, it 
must be admitted, seemed not in the least dis¬ 
turbed, rather pleased in fact, as though, like Pru¬ 
dence, he washed his hands of the entire affair 
and left himself to Jerrold’s disposal. 

And then like a rare flash of inspiration Jer¬ 
rold saw a way out. He scribbled quickly on a 
piece of paper. 

“I tell you what,” he said triumphantly. “She’s 
gone out in the car,—Jerry, I mean. You go up 
to the house and see Prudence. She’ll tell you 
what to do. It seems you are expected to take a 
position and go to work for me. Come in to¬ 
morrow if you think you can stand it, and we’ll 
see what we can scare up. But the first thing for 
you to do is to go right up there as fast as you 
can and see Prudence.” 

Jerrold sent a boy from the shop to take him 
to the house in one of the cars, and Duane found 
himself standing on the wide veranda of the great 
205 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


white house, shadowy beneath great branching 
maples with leaves faintly turning to gold at the 
edges, before he realized that he had no idea un¬ 
der heaven as to whom he had come there to see. 

“See Prudence,” Jerrold had told him, with 
vast relief. 

“In love like Prudence,” Jerry had said on that 
memorable night in Carter Blake’s kitchen. 

“Good lord!” he thought in trepidation. “Am 
I to blurt it out like that, "Lead me to Prudence’ ?” 
For what or whomever she might be, whether 
sister, companion, or friend, he had no slightest 
idea. 

In another instant he would have bolted for 
freedom from this embarrassing predicament, but 
the door opened in the face of his dismay, and 
Katie’s sober placid features confronted him. 

“Er-uh,” he stammered nervously, and then 
he faced it bravely, with that winning smile which 
never yet had failed to blaze a trail for him. “It 
sounds rather a fool’s errand, I know,” he said 
pleasantly, “but Mr. Harmer sent me up and told 
me to see Prudence.” 


206 


CHAPTER V 


jerry’s mother 

D UANE’S plaintive announcement at the 
hospitable door of the Harmer home found 
echo in a soft peal of sympathetic laughter from 
within, and she came herself to receive him, Pru¬ 
dence, both hands outstretched in welcome. 

“I’m Prudence,” she said. “I am Jerry’s 
mother. Come right in, won’t you? It was just 
like my husband to send you to me in some such 
crazy fashion.” 

Duane felt a pleasant, curious quiet come over 
him as he looked at her. Prudence! Jerry had 
thought it was falling in love like—Prudence. 
Jerrold had sent him in triumph to—Prudence. 
This was Prudence. 

In spite of the extreme slenderness of her 
figure, in spite of the delicate pallor of her creamy 
skin and the faint suggestion of silver in the soft 
brown hair, there was nothing of frailty about 
207 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


her, rather a sort of youthful, undying buoyancy. 
Duane loved the humorous droop of her sensitive 
lips, the humorous light of interest in her bright 
eyes. 

Prudence laughed, holding his hand compan- 
ionably in hers, as she drew him into the wide 
lovely room, where she motioned him lightly to 
an easy chair, and then tucked herself cozily into 
one comer of another, far too wide for her, lean¬ 
ing comfortably over the upholstered arm in his 
direction. She could have wept aloud over him, 
and yet she liked him. Prudence, with the rigid 
training of her Methodist ancestry, still stoutly 
affirmed that she never took a dislike to any 
human being, that she was positively without per¬ 
sonal aversion. But when she liked, it was with 
a quick unerring instinct which had never be¬ 
trayed her trust. 

She rejoiced that she felt this liking for the 
unfortunate young knight errant, who had come 
to the Middle West on such an absurd, boyish 
quest. Jerry might fool her father, might amaze 
and bewilder even one as skeptical as Duane, but 
208 


JERRY’S MOTHER 


Prudence saw through every little flaw in her 
armor, saw what lay beneath her stubborn resist¬ 
ance and her eager impulse, both springing as 
they did from the same emotion. 

She found herself apologizing for her daughter. 
“You must really excuse Jerry if sometime she 
seems a little—self-willed, almost strong-headed, 
her father says. I can’t imagine where she got 
so much backbone. I’m very easy about every¬ 
thing, and her father is wax in the hands of any 
one who tries to wheedle him, but Jerry has a 
terrible mind once she gets it made up.” 

Duane found himself thinking less of Jerry 
than of Prudence, rather, thinking through Pru¬ 
dence to Jerry again. His impression of that 
lovely though wilful young woman had to under¬ 
go a swift transformation now that he saw Pru¬ 
dence. She explained everything he had not 
understood before. He found her a rational ac¬ 
counting for the moods of a maddening maiden. 

Prudence did not ask questions. She just 
talked, laughing with him, at New York, at Jerry, 
at the Middle West, and at his curious obedience 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


to the caprice of her always capricious daugh¬ 
ter. 

“And you may have to go to work, too,” she 
told him. “She seems quite to have set her heart 
on making you work. She used to scoff at the 
nobility of labor as applied to herself, but she 
seems to have no such scruples in regard to you. 
Perhaps she is going to ennoble you in spite of 
yourself. But possibly you will not mind. You 
do not look at all lazy.” 

“I’ve worked before—as you might say. Well, 
I never washed cars for a living, but perhaps I 
can if I must.” 

He asked Prudence if it surprised or disap¬ 
pointed her, when Jerry gave up her dreams of 
Art, her hope of becoming a painter. 

“Not a bit,” this amazing woman told him. 
“It didn’t surprise me, and it certainly didn’t 
disappoint me. I was glad of it. I knew all the 
time she couldn’t paint.” 

“Then why did you send her—alone—to study, 
to—” 

“I knew it, but she didn’t. She had to find out, 


210 


JERRY’S MOTHER 


somehow, didn’t she ?” And then she talked more 
of Jerry, of a Jerry he had felt might be in exist¬ 
ence but had not known in person. “She may not 
be much of an artist,” she said, “but she’s a beau¬ 
tiful, wonderful daughter to Jerrold and me. We 
don’t care whether she can paint or not, she’s 
ours.” 

After a little, when he felt he could safely 
venture to intrude upon the intimately personal, 
he asked rather awkwardly: 

“Would you mind telling me—how—you fell 
in love?” 

Prudence blushed a little, laughed delightedly. 
“Oh, the silliest thing,” she said apologetically. 
“Didn’t Jerry tell you?” 

And then she told him of that early morning 
on the lovely Iowa countryside, when she went 
£oasting down a steep grade on a borrowed 
bicycle into disaster and wreckage at the bottom. 
When he sympathized, laughing, with the Pru¬ 
dence lying in the dust by the roadside, battered 
and crumpled and torn, with the ruins of the bor¬ 
rowed wheel about her, and on her conscience,— 


211 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Oh, don’t be sorry,” she pleaded gaily, joining 
his laughter, “for I opened my eyes and there 
stood over me—Jerrold—Jerry’s father—and we 
looked at each other—” 

Duane’s lips were a rigid line. “Love at first 
sight!” he muttered grimly. “I might have 
known it.” 

Prudence nodded. “Yes, love at first sight,” 
she repeated softly. “Don’t you let any one tell 
you there’s no such thing. There is ! At least 
there was in our day. Oh, well, perhaps it is not 
technically and scientifically down in the books as 
love at first sight. But there is that little pleased 
wakening up, that warm attraction,—and if it 
stops, it is nothing. But if it goes on and on, it 
is love at first sight. Like ours! But perhaps 
things are different now, times are changed, and 
girls are very different.” 

Duane was looking past Prudence now, beyond 
her, to the heart of Jerry, her daughter, un¬ 
changed with the changing times. In that 
moment he knew with undoubting sureness why 
he had come to this remote and curious place in 


212 


JERRY’S MOTHER 


answer to the impulsive appeal of her letter. 
His eyes, on Prudence’s face, saw not hers but 
Jerry’s. 

*Tm surprised she didn’t tell you about it,” 
Prudence was saying. “From the time she could 
talk, she has adored that bit of the family history. 
When she was a baby, and a little girl,—yes, and 
until she was a pretty big one, she would always 
say she was going to fall in love like Prudence. 
She thought nothing else was really love! She 
used to tell perfect strangers, with the utmost 
frankness and assurance, that it would come to her 
like that—love—a sudden look, and knowing—” 
Prudence laughed tenderly. “She got over it, 
of course. When she was old enough to under¬ 
stand, she realized that it doesn’t happen like that 
once in a thousand years, or more.” 

Duane said nothing. For once, Prudence was 
wrong. Jerry had not changed. All through her 
babyhood, and into her woman’s estate, that had 
been the dominant hope and faith of her gay 
romantic heart. And he, with profane, half- 
drunken fingers, and hot half-drunken lips, had 
213 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


rent the veil from the beautiful illusion that had 
been her tenderest dream. 

“I love Jerry,” he said aloud to Prudence, in a 
very slow and sober voice. “Did you know it?” 

“I—I rather thought so,” said Prudence, with 
a little quivering of her sensitive lips. But she 
smiled immediately. “I—I don’t mind a bit,” she 
said bravely, in gentle apology for that betrayal 
of her lips. 


CHAPTER VI 


JERRY CALLS FOR HELP 

J ERROLD returned to his home that night in 
an unnaturally depressed and embittered 
frame of mind. Why should he, he demanded 
of Prudence in a stem voice, be saddled with a 
protege like that,—as big as himself, and who by 
his own admission knew nothing of motor-cars 
beyond the steering wheel. Prudence agreed 
with him that it was perfectly reprehensible on 
the part of their daughter, and she couldn’t 
imagine what things were coming to with this 
new generation! She balanced herself on the 
edge of the bath tub while he was shaving, fol¬ 
lowed him meekly into the room they shared to¬ 
gether and stood pathetically beside him at the 
dressing-table while he viciously jerked a fresh 
tie into place. 

“It’s the way you’ve raised her,” he said in a 
tone that cleared himself of all moral responsi- 

215 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


bility for Jerry at least, however much Duane 
might rest upon his shoulders. 

“I know it,” Prudence agreed meekly. 

And then she told her husband that she hoped 
he would be very tactful that night when Jerry 
came home, so that things might work themselves 
out to a neat conclusion without interference on 
his part, 

“Tact? What do you mean tact?” he de¬ 
manded. 

“Tact,—you know what tact is, don’t you? It 
means, say nothing and believe everything you 
hear,” she explained sweepingly. “It means, 
don’t say a word to Jerry about the young man, 
don’t so much as breathe his name,—and if she 
mentions him of her own accord, believe every¬ 
thing she says even if you know she’s making it 
up word for word as she goes along.” 

Jerrold, who had always found her counsel 
good, consented to follow the dictates of tact as 
she portrayed it in his dealing with Jerry. And 
so all during dinner they talked with passionate 
concentration of a thousand things that on this 
216 


JERRY CALLS FOR HELP 


night interested them not in the least,—of Jerry’s 
houses and her struggles with labor problems, of 
Jerraid’s business, and Prudence’s innocent pur¬ 
suits, of politics, wars and religion, but not one 
of the three raised a voice on the subject of 
Duane Allerton. 

After dinner they sat down for a practise game 
of three-handed bridge, but when Prudence, play¬ 
ing spades, revoked twice in hot succession with¬ 
out a word of protest from her opponents, she put 
her cards on the table. 

“You’re not paying attention,” she accused 
them. “How can you expect to teach me to play 
bridge unless you watch me? I trumped hearts 
twice, and here I have two hearts in my hand, 
and now I don’t know what to do with them.” 

Jerry laughed. “Pretend they’re trumps. Any¬ 
thing is fair if you can get away with it,” she 
said indifferently. 

And then her father, abandoning the admoni¬ 
tions of Prudence and the guidance of tact, turned 
on her in desperation. 

“See here, Jerry, I’ll stand for a lot,—and 
217 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


heaven knows I’ve had to,—but when it comes to 
bringing a strange young man out here from New 
York and dumping him down on me without 
warning, and washing your hands of him in cold 
blood—well, you can’t do it.” 

Jerry stood up. She looked her father straight 
in the face, but her voice was very gentle. “Why 
can’t I ?” was all she said. 

Jerrold looked to Prudence for assistance. 
Prudence was patiently counting the superfluous 
hearts. 

After all, what was there to say? Why couldn’t 
she ? Obviously, she had. And that was the end 
of it. 

The next morning Jerrold called Duane into 
the office. 

“Do you want a position ?” he asked, still hope¬ 
ful for the best. 

“Oh, absolutely. I came on purpose.” 

Jerrold sighed. But he told him to hang 
about, and put in the time as best he could, to try 
not to get in people’s way, and if he accidentally 
came across anything he could do, to feel per- 
218 


JERRY CALLS FOR HELP 


fectly free to do it. He gave him cards to the 
best clubs, offered him the use of a car at any 
time he wished it and told him to get as much fun 
out of life as he could. 

“How much salary do you want?” 

“How much can I get?” 

“Well, I fancy I could get men quite capable 
of doing what you’re going to do for fifteen 
dollars a week, and glad of the chance,” Jerrold 
said, smiling faintly. “But it lends a sort of 
tone to the establishment to have your clothes 
and your accent in our employ, so say twenty-five. 
And you might lounge gracefully about in the 
show room as much as you can; you are sure to 
attract attention to the house if not to the motor.” 

Duane thanked him, and said he would try to 
be worthy of so much trust. He said he had 
other clothes, far more comment-creating than 
those he was wearing, and that his entire ward¬ 
robe was henceforth at the disposal of the 
Harmer Motor. 

And then he laid serious and studied siege to 
the stubborn heart of Jerry. Every morning on 
219 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


the stroke of ten, a messenger appeared at the 
door with a box of flowers,—violet, orchid and 
rose. Jerry gave them to the maids, sent them 
to the neighbors, but finally, in a burst of resent¬ 
ment at the persistence she was beginning to feel 
was more than flesh and blood could bear, she 
whirled the unopened box into the street the 
moment the messenger had disappeared. 

The next morning when the bell rang, she ran 
furiously down to receive the hated tribute, but 
stopped on the stairs in some amazement, even in 
anger. Her mother was opening the box. 

“Mother!” 

“They are for me.” Prudence tipped the box 
to show her name on the tag, to banish that 
springing distrust in Jerry’s mutinous eyes. 

“Since when is father so devoted?” 

The clock struck ten,—a curious coincidence. 
And then, as Prudence took the flowers from the 
box, a soft cluster of yellow roses and lilies-of- 
the-valley, Jerry saw the card,—Duane Allerton. 
Her eyes flashed, darkened with rage. She thrust 
out angry hands, and caught the delicate flowers 


220 


JERRY CALLS FOR HELP 


roughly, to tear them from her mother’s arm. 
Prudence gently but with great firmness retained 
her hold. 

“Jerry! They’re mine.” 

The soft voice was softer than ever before. 
Jerry’s hands clung mutinously for a moment and 
then dropped weakly to her sides. 

“Mother, please,” she whispered. “I—I can’t 
stand them in the house.” And then, with a 
pitiful attempt to laugh away her display of emo¬ 
tion, she said with a sorry smile, “I—I must be 
developing nerves.” 

Prudence looked into her eyes, relented quickly. 
“I’ll send them down to Carol. Katie can take 
them to the mail at once. Julia adores flowers.” 

The next morning, at ten o’clock, Jerry stood 
at the window listening for the expected, unwel¬ 
come ring at her door. It did not come. Ten- 
thirty, eleven,—and no flowers. There was sad 
suspicion in her eyes as she glanced now and then, 
furtively, at her mother. Would her very own 
work in league against her? 

Jerry had no slightest doubt of the honor and 


221 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


the uprightness of her stubborn stand. It was 
really a final desperate struggle in defense of her 
most sacred, girlish principle of purity,—that in¬ 
herent niceness of thought, reserve of person, that 
tarnishes at best, so quickly. Jerry had flirted, 
had frivoled joyously from beau to beau, had 
laughed at tentative, truanting caresses in sheer 
light-heartedness of spirit,—that was when the 
real Jerry had slipped by untouched. But with 
that tender ideal enshrined in the romantic glam¬ 
our of her guarded youth, she would brook no 
trifling. 

She worked with passionate intensity, bending 
over the sketches for her houses and her columns 
of figures far, far into the night. She did not 
sleep well, she had no appetite, and unusual dark 
circles outlined the lovely misty eyes. 

On her first attempt at renovation, the old 
house on Seventeenth Street opposite the park, 
after weeks of work and worry and passionate 
devotion, she cleared but a paltry three hundred 
dollars, for all the fabulous towering of her hopes. 
Jerry laughed at that, gamely. 


222 


JERRY CALLS FOR HELP 


“I don’t care! See how much fun I’ve had. 
And look what a lot of things I learned! I’ll 
make it up on the next one, you’ll see!” 

But not all her intense concentration in her 
work could account for the pathetic droop of her 
fine lips and the new delicate pallor of her face. 
In the end, Jerrold felt that nothing would come 
of it. He said so to Prudence, many times. Pru¬ 
dence said nothing. 

She asked if Duane was taking an interest in 
the business, if he worked hard, earned his salary. 

“You bet he earns it, staying in the same town 
with that daughter of yours,” Jerrold said resent¬ 
fully; and added more moderately: “Well, no, 
I can’t say that he works much,—if any. But he 
sticks around. And people come in to look him 
over,—and incidentally get a view of the car 
while they’re in. And the boys seem to like him.” 

Jerrold had indeed no ground for feeling that 
Duane, even as a prospective, somewhat poorly 
prospective, son-in-law, had any designs upon the 
ultimate management of the Harmer Motor. In 
spite of his conscientious attendance in the show 
223 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


room, his effacement from the active business of 
the concern was complete. But he developed an 
inordinate interest in the rich, prosy little middle 
western city and asked endless questions about it, 
questions of intimate import, when he and Jer¬ 
rold were having luncheon together as they often 
did. 

“Pm trying to acclimate myself to the com 
belt,” he said lightly, in explanation of this inter¬ 
est in things about town. But Jerrold, who was 
making him the subject of an avid attention and 
study, knew it was something deeper than that. 

“Why, do you know,” Duane asked him one 
day, “you can pick up land along the river, and 
near the railroads, for a song, absolutely for a 
song? Building sites that ought to be worth— 
well, I suppose not quite their weight in gold,— 
but worth a fortune anyhow in ten or twenty 
years.” 

Jerrold said he supposed so, his shrewd, always 
kind eyes, fixed on Duane’s face. 

“They haven’t half the factories, the manufac¬ 
turing plants, they ought to have here. The town 
224 


JERRY CALLS FOR HELP 


could support a hundred times the amount of busi¬ 
ness it’s got. It’s towns like this where a big 
business really pays, isn’t it? Where property 
is cheap, expenses low, facilities good? Isn’t 
that the way they figure?” 

“It’s the way my father figured when he started 
the factory, I should imagine.” 

“And besides, for a rich farming state like 
this, they haven’t got half the elevator business 
they ought to have. Have they? If the middle 
men have to get fifty per cent, of the farm in¬ 
come, the least they can do is to turn the busi¬ 
ness over to home middle men and keep the 
profits in the state. Shouldn’t you say so?” 

“It seems no more than reasonable.” 

“There’s a pile of money here for any one that 
goes after it, isn’t there?” 

“What’s the matter with you ? Are you trying 
to sell me the Middle West ?” 

“No, I just want to find out if I am sold on it 
myself,” Duane explained, laughing. “I haven’t 
got a whole lot of capital left, you know, after 
my foolish fliers in the last three years. I want 
225 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


to be sure what I’m doing before I go in again. 
But it seems to me that this town—Well, it’s as 
though it were asleep. Somebody’s going to step 
in here and pick up a few fine spots for factories, 
a few choice corners for grain elevators, and then 
after a while sit back and take his exercise dip¬ 
ping coupons. And it seems to me I was just 
bom for a coupon-clipper.” 

“I wish you luck, my boy. I can’t think of a 
pleasanter indoor sport.” 

And so while Duane was satisfied to leave the 
Harmer Motor Company to Jerrold’s manipula¬ 
tion, Jerrold was satisfied that it should be so, 
for he knew the young man was keeping a wary 
eye on things in general, and that when the oppor¬ 
tunity came for him to cut loose for himself, this 
time at least he would be sure of his ground. He 
told Prudence about it. 

“That’s nice,” she said, warm in her approval. 
“It’s just like families,—they do so much better 
in separate houses.” 

“You can hardly call him part of the family,” 
226 


JERRY CALLS FOR HELP 


protested Jerrold. “The way that girl acts—it’s 
insulting!” 

Duane wrote to Jerry. She did not trouble 
to return the letter by post, she merely tore the 
envelope across a couple of times, unopened, and 
handed it to her father. 

“Take it down and give it to him, will 
you?” 

“Now, Jerry, have a heart,” objected the bad¬ 
gered father. “Why do you insist on dragging me 
into this thing? Why, it will make him feel like 
a fool to have me pass it across to him, with the 
compliments of the house, and so forth. Mail it! 
Stamps are cheap enough!” 

“Daughters are a nuisance, after all, aren’t 
they, father?” she agreed, and went out at once 
in her little car to inspect the cottage on which 
she was engaged. 

Jerrold, thus left with the scraps of the futile 
correspondence, turned to Prudence. 

“What shall I do?” he asked helplessly. 

“I don’t know,” she said gently. “What do 
you think?” 


227 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


So Jerrold carried it down to the office and 
sent for Duane. “It’s none of my business, of 
course,” he said. “Don’t think I care how much 
you correspond with the family,—and don’t 
blame me,—but I don’t know what else to do 
with it. She gave it to me and said to bring it 
to you.” 

He passed the bits of paper to Duane hastily 
as though they burned his fingers. Duane ex¬ 
amined them hopefully, saw the unbroken seal of 
the envelope. 

“She didn’t even read it, did she ?” he said de¬ 
jectedly. 

“I don’t know, maybe she did,” said Jerry’s 
father. “She took it up-stairs, and it was quite 
a while before she came down. Maybe she read 
it while she was up, and then sealed it again to 
fool you. I wouldn’t put it past her.” 

Duane laughed, and examined the envelope 
more hopefully, but the seal bore no faint trace 
of tampering fingers. 

“I know they say, Never say die, and Try, try 
again, and all that nonsense,” Jerrold went on 
228 


JERRY CALLS FOR HELP 


gloomily. “But I don’t put much stock in it in 
this case. Jerry’s not a stubborn girl, naturally. 
If she makes a mistake, she always admits it and 
rights about face. I don’t think she likes you,— 
if you’ll excuse me for saying so. And I don’t 
think—” 

“You don’t need to,” said Duane grimly. “But 
she does like me. And she brought me out here, 
and by the eternal, I’ll stick if it takes ten years!” 

“Well, I think you’re wasting your time, my 
boy, but have it your own way.” Jerrold was 
sympathetic. “I don’t understand girls myself. 
Prudence isn’t like that,—you can always talk her 
down.” 

Duane had been in Des Moines one full bitter 
month without a word from Jerry. And then 
one morning there was a telephone call in the 
machine shop, and Duane knew it was Oppor¬ 
tunity calling for him by that modem, mechanical 
contrivance, as it seems she often calls. The boy 
turned from the telephone and called out to the 
man in charge of the repair shop: 

229 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Send a tow car for Miss Harmer. She broke 
down out on Eleventh, other side of the park. 
She’s in a hurry.” 

Before the man in charge could make a move 
or give an order, Duane was on his feet. 

“Hold up that call a minute,” he said with im¬ 
pressive authority in his tone. “I’ve got to speak 
to Mr. Harmer. I’ll be right back.” 

He broke into the sacred precinct of the presi¬ 
dent’s office without ceremony. 

“Listen, Mr. Harmer,” he began with boyish 
eagerness. “Her car broke down,—Jerry’s,— 
and she ’phoned for a tow. May I go after her?” 

Jerrold looked at him, laughed a little, shook 
his head. “Sure you may. And God help you!” 

Jerry sat patiently behind the wheel of her 
handsome little roadster, beneath the groaning 
branches of a great maple, a skeleton in the late 
fall, and waited for the tow car. Her thoughts 
were far from the quiet Iowa street. She was 
away, in Brooklyn, in a little smoke-clouded 
studio, far up, looking out over East River to the 
230 


JERRY CALLS FOR HELP 


brave lights of New York. She returned to the 
time and the place with a violent start when the 
tow car in a cloud of dust swept up abreast of her, 
and stopped with a crunching and grinding of 
brakes. She stepped out briskly, with her usual 
cordial smile for one of her father’s employees, 

“I can’t imagine what’s the matter,” she began 
brightly. “It’s deader than—” The smile froze 
upon her face when she met Duane Allerton’s 
eyes, her voice became a still cold thing. “The 
starter won’t work. Will you take me in quickly, 
please?” 

Duane got out and stood beside her. “Why, 
how do you do?” he said. “I think I met you 
once before—in Brooklyn.” 

“I don’t recall it.” 

“Good! Let’s both forget it and start afresh! 
It will be so much better in the end.” 

“Will you hurry, please? I have a business 
appointment.” She consulted the platinum and 
diamond wrist watch with a most professional 
alertness. 

“You’ve changed,” he told her, not heeding her 
231 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


words, his eyes on the slender contour of her 
face. “You are paler. Perhaps you use less 
rouge here than in the city.” 

“I don’t use any on my car,” she said, flushing 
with resentment for his familiarity; and turned 
her back upon him. 

Duane got out the chains and fastened her car 
to his, but when he had finished he came to her 
again. 

“You’re just as beautiful as ever,” he said 
softly. 

Jerry did not turn her head. 

“I’m afraid you will have to sit in your own 
car to steer it,” he said regretfully. “I’m 
sorry, I’d so much rather have you ride with me, 
but—” 

“I don’t mind. I’d rather.” She slipped 
quickly into her place beside the wheel, her eyes 
upon the road ahead. 

He stood beside the car, very close to it, learn 
ing upon the door. She did not meet his eyes. 

“Jerry,” he said very softly, “don’t you think 
you’re treating me very badly?” 

232 


JERRY CALLS FOR HELP 


She hesitated a moment. The appeal of his 
voice was a positive pain to her, but Jerry had 
listened to that appeal before, to her sorrow. Her 
tone was low, her accents incisively cold as she 
answered: 

“Yes. Why not?” 

He could not but smile at the direct conclusive¬ 
ness of her retort. He turned about and started 
for the tow car ahead. Suddenly she leaned for¬ 
ward, and called after him. 

“Mr. Allerton, ,, she said, and he came back to 
her with hopeful eagerness. “I wish you would 
go away again. I was very foolish to send for 
you. I—didn’t realize how it would be. I will 
pay your way back to New York and give you 
money enough to—to take care of you—until you 
get started again—” 

“No, thanks, Miss Harmer, I am staying right 
on in Des Moines,” he said quietly, without 
smiling. 

“I—I wish you would go,” she said pleadingly. 
“It—it makes me very unhappy,—having you 
here.” 


233 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


He shook his head. “I am sorry. I have a 
nice position with your father. I shouldn’t think 
of leaving.” 

Jerry’s chin lifted defiantly. "I shall tell my 
father to discharge you,” she threatened. 

“Then when I come begging to your back door, 
will your maid refuse me a crust of bread to 
stay my hunger?” he asked lightly. 

“If my father dismisses you and offers you a 
ticket home, you will be glad enough to go.” 

“If your father dismissed me and gave me a 
ticket to Heaven itself, Jerry, I would not go 
without you. I shall never leave Des Moines 
until I take you with me.” 

“I’ll go away myself then,” she cried furiously. 
“I don’t have to stay here—to be insulted—and 
humiliated—and—” 

“I shall wait until you come back, Jerry,” he 
said soberly. 

“I’ll never come back!” 

“Oh, yes, you will come back,” he said softly. 
“As long as your Prudence is here, you wiil come 
back.” 


234 


CHAPTER VII 


in jerry's citadel 

J ERRY announced a sudden desire to visit her 
twin aunts in Mount Mark, down in the 
southeastern part of the state, and Prudence, with 
her usual gentle willingness to please, acquiesced 
at once though with secret reluctance, for Jerrold 
said he could not possibly accompany them and 
pleaded business as a reason. In all the years of 
their marriage, Prudence had never left him with¬ 
out reluctance, nor returned to him without joy. 

From the hours of her earliest recollection, 
Jerry had assumed a solemn share of her mother’s 
responsibility for all the aunts, and for their hus¬ 
bands, and their children, their homes and their 
bank-accounts. Had not her mother brought 
them up? Prudence had accepted Jerrold and 
Jerry as a bountiful, beautiful dispensation of a 
generous and loving Providence, and in them felt 
only an implicit confidence and joy. But her 
235 


PRUDENCE'S DAUGHTER 


sisters were a sacred trust, accepted in all solem¬ 
nity and retained with unfaltering fidelity, and 
Jerry, in all things part and parcel of her 
mother’s life, shared deeply in that obligation al¬ 
most before she could talk. 

So when Jerry said briskly, “By the way, 
mother, we’d better run down to Mount Mark and 
see what those twin aunts are up to,” Prudence 
could only yield. 

Carol was Jerry’s favorite, a fact she tried 
with kindly intention to conceal from the general 
knowledge of the family. She loved the quiet 
hush of Carol’s life, and found a thrill of exalta¬ 
tion in the knowledge of the gentle widowhood 
that followed the riotous youth of the merriest 
and most mischievous of all the aunts. The 
tender immersion of her entire life in that of her 
orphaned baby, Julia, after the frivolous vanities 
of her gay girlhood, seemed to Jerry a thing 
divine. 

Baby Julia herself, now grown to a moody, 
misty-eyed, dream-enwrapped girl of fourteen, 
had fascinated Jerry from the first, and never 
236 


IN JERRY’S CITADEL 


more than at this time in the light of her new 
wisdom and understanding. Jerry looked at her 
keenly, noted the murmurous, far-away tone of 
her voice, remarked the subtle depths of her 
dreamy eyes. She shook her head ominously. 

“You keep an eye on that girl, Aunt Carol,” 
she said wamingly. “You keep an eye on Julia.” 

And when Carol laughed at her, telling her 
that Julia had never given her an anxious moment 
in all her life, that she could read her inmost soul 
like a printed page, Jerry grew only more 
anxious. 

“Um, that’s the kind,” she said. “The thing 
you think is her inmost soul isn’t soul at all. It’s 
just a little borrowed cloud put on to hide what’s 
going on inside,—like a smoke screen.” 

“Jerry, that’s not nice,” protested Julia’s 
mother. “Julia has nothing to hide from any 
one. She is the most honest child, the least de¬ 
ceitful, the—” 

“Oh, it isn’t Julia’s fault,” Jerry interposed 
quickly. “Don’t think I am criticizing Julia, by 
any means. She doesn’t know what’s going on 
237 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


inside her, any more than you do. She’ll be as 
much surprised as anybody one of these days.” 

And later she said, “Perhaps, after all, I’m 
just born to be a gorgon lady with snaky locks to 
feed the fires of somebody else’s talent.” 

And when her aunt did not understand, and 
said she did not enjoy riddles, she explained, 
incomprehensibly, after this manner : 

“I think she’s got it, poor child! The divine 
spark! It will burn her up.” 

“Prudence, what in the world is she talking 
about ?” Carol turned to her sister for enlighten¬ 
ment. 

“Genius,” went on Jerry moodily. “She’s the 
only one of the tribe that has the ear-marks, but 
it sticks out all over her, and believe me, Aunt 
Carol, I know the symptoms. Such a pretty girl, 
too. Isn’t it a shame ?” 

“Of course she is a genius,” said Carol com¬ 
placently. “Everybody says so. Why, she’s 
been writing poetry, and books, and plays,—even 
tragedies where everybody dies and commits 
suicide,—ever since she could hold a pencil.” 

238 


IN JERRY’S CITADEL 


“I knew it,” said Jerry despondently. “I felt 
it the minute I looked at her. I’d rather have 
the measles myself. Well, we’ll just have to 
make the best of it, Aunt Carol, so try not to 
worry about it. If it proves too much for you, 
I’ll back you.” And then she said, “I learned 
one thing. The gods seem to scatter their good 
gifts with a free and lavish hand, but I tell you 
they demand payment in full. For every genius, 
a human sacrifice. Blood, I tell you, heart’s 
blood! A mother, a lover, a friend,—somebody 
has to be offered up on the altar of every talent.” 

Carol looked at Prudence. “She’s sick, poor 
child. You ought to do something for her.” 

Jerry laughed. “Don’t worry about me. I’m 
no genius and thank God for it. I’m just a com¬ 
monplace maker-over of other people’s houses, 
and I’m glad of it,—and making money into the 
bargain. But I know what I’m talking about. 
To keep a genius going, a human heart must 
feed the sacrificial fires. And if I’m not much 
mistaken, poor dear little Julia will be calling for 
kindling one of these days.” 

239 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Carol and Julia went with them to the country 
to visit Lark and Jim on their lovely Iowa farm. 
Lark’s three children Jerry inspected with solici¬ 
tous interest, pronounced them very nice, very 
healthy and quite human, thank God, and washed 
her hands of them. But she hovered constantly 
over Julia with a passionate pity which sent the 
aunts off into peals of merry laughter and ex¬ 
asperated Julia herself into seething fury. 

It was pleasant to be in Mount Mark, among 
the old friends, in the old home, discussing old 
days and deeds with the mischievous members of 
the parsonage family. They talked of Fairy and 
Gene, they talked of Connie and Prince and their 
miraculously golden trafficking in oil. 

The twins said it seemed strange that Connie 
had remained away when Jerry was in New 
York, that she had gone so suddenly and re¬ 
mained so long. And when she was alone with 
her sisters Prudence said, slowly: 

“You mustn’t think Connie was neglecting 
Jerry, girls,—in any way. You see, they had 
been talking of making that trip, anyhow, so—I 
240 


IN JERRY’S CITADEL 


just wrote and begged them to go at once,—and 
to linger as long as possible.” 

The twins stared, then laughed, then lightly- 
shrugged their shoulders. “We might have 
known it,” was what they said. 

“But Prudence,” protested Lark, when she had 
thought it over, “she could have made it so pleas¬ 
ant for Jerry.” 

“Jerry didn’t go to be pleasant,” Prudence de¬ 
fended herself. “She went to be free, and she 
said herself she couldn’t be free if we put her in 
Connie’s care. Besides—if her life lay there, she 
would have found it. But if there was nothing 
for her in New York—I wanted her back. And 
no one but Jerry could find that out.” 

Prudence and Jerry had left Des Moines on 
the early morning train, about half past six or 
seven. At half past nine that same morning, Jer- 
rold called Duane into the office. 

“How’s business?” he asked cheerfully. 

“Fine. I’m learning the trade from the ground 
up. I picked up four tools and a can of oil yes¬ 
terday,” said Duane. 


241 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Prudence and Jerry have gone down to Mount 
Mark to visit the aunts and cousins. How would 
you like to come up to the house and stay with 
me in their absence ? I can only admit, with all 
due modesty, that we have a good cook.” 

Duane flushed with pleasure. 

“I’d like it, if you’re sure I won’t be in the 
way,” he said with great eagerness. 

“Not a bit. I’m glad to have you. The house 
is like a morgue without them—they talk so 
much.” 

“You know I don’t really know Jerry very 
well,” Duane explained cautiously. “I’m only 
in love with her, that’s all.” 

“You’re sure of that, are you? Sure it’s not 
just a little infatuation that lingers on—from 
pique—because she remains recalcitrant.” 

Duane shook his head. “I’m sure. Surer than 
death since I met Prudence.” And then on a 
sudden thought he said, “You—you are sure Pru¬ 
dence will not mind.” 

“Prudence suggested it, my boy, Prudence sug¬ 
gested it.” And he added dryly, “When you’ve 
242 


IN JERRY'S CITADEL 


known Prudence as long as I have, you’ll know 
that she has a nasty habit of thinking of things 
first.” 

They went over to the hotel at once and got 
Duane’s bags and then drove out the lovely ave¬ 
nue toward the great house, showing broad and 
white among the bare maples that hedged it on 
every side. 

Jerrold led the way into the living-room, where 
Duane had sat once before with Prudence, and 
called Katie. 

“We’re going to have Mr. Allerton with us 
while the family’s away,” he explained amiably. 
“Now look after him nicely and make him com¬ 
fortable. And tell Mary I’ve been bragging 
about her cooking. Mr. Allerton is a particular 
friend of Miss Jerry’s, you know.” 

Katie smiled broadly. “I know,” she said, 
with the respectful, friendly familiarity of long 
and devoted service. “I heard her tell you about 
him over the telephone.” 

Both men laughed, and Duane blushed boy¬ 
ishly. 


243 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Well, he’s a friend of mine anyhow, so be 
good to him,” said Jerrold. “And mind you say 
nothing to any one—” 

“Oh, no, Mr. Harmer, I wouldn’t.” She 
smiled toward Duane with pleasant sympathy and 
curious interest. 

Jerrold took Duane’s bags and led the way up 
the wide comfortable stairs. “This den in the 
end of the hall is Jerry’s idea,” he explained, indi¬ 
cating the beautiful lounge at the head of the 
stairs. “She says it seems so sordid just to 
divide a house with a hall,—so presto—a lounge. 
We’ve built the house over three times on Jerry’s 
account. When she was born, to make her a 
nursery. When she grew up, to get rid of it. 
And the last time when somebody gave her The 
House Beautiful for a Christmas present, to make 
the magazine look like thirty cents. She says 
she did everything that the magazine made fun 
of, just to show it up. This is where we hang 
out.” 

He led the way across to the wide, bright, 
charming room he shared with Prudence, and 
244 


IN JERRY’S CITADEL 


Duane looked about it with pleasure. But Jer- 
rold frowned. 

“Women are—well, women are certainly—• 
Sometimes I think I don’t know Prudence very 
well, but then, what can you expect? We’ve 
been married only twenty years.” 

Duane watched him, laughing, said nothing, 
while Jerrold stalked grimly out into Jerry’s 
stairway lounge and returned dragging with him 
a heavy, bronze smoking-stand. 

“I have many bad habits,” Jerrold went on 
gloomily. “One is that I will smoke every morn¬ 
ing before I get up. Prudence doesn’t approve 
of it. So every morning in the twenty-two years 
of our connubial bliss, she has lugged my smok¬ 
ing-stand out in the lounge where she says it be¬ 
longs, and every night I lug it back before I go 
to bed. Twenty-two years of it!” 

Duane laughed in keen enjoyment. 

“Last thing she did before she left was to 
trot that stand out of the bedroom. Knowing 
all the time the minute I got home, I’d trot it 
back.” 


245 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Prudence does not smoke, I infer.” 

“Jerry doesn’t either—here,” said Jerrold 
quickly. “Mostly the nice women don’t—here. 
It didn’t seem to take in the Middle West. Jerry 
did in college a few times for fun—all the girls 
do—and she told us she smoked a great deal in 
New York. But she doesn’t here. We didn’t 
tell her not to, mind you. Prudence says even 
daughters are free souls when they grow up. 
She’s got a stunning little stand that some sculp¬ 
tor made for her in New York—a beauty—uses 
it for pins.” 

And then, with that gentleness of instinct that 
made Jerrold Harmer the man that Prudence 
could adore throughout her life, he said: 

“That’s Jerry’s room across the hall. Go on 
over and have a look, while I tell Mary about 
dinner. It’s very cute.” 

“Do—do you mind ?” 

“Not a bit. It’s worth seeing. We did it over 
to suit her—you know—in opposition to The 
House Beautiful. I’ll be up in a minute.” And 
he struck off down-stairs whistling blithely. 

246 


IN JERRY’S CITADEL 


Duane waited until a door closed behind him 
somewhere below, and then he crossed quickly to 
Jerry’s room. 

Involuntarily, he smiled. How could he have 
failed to recognize the incongruity of her gaudy 
black and orange surroundings in Reilly’s Alley ? 
This room breathed of her, it sang of her,—soft 
and warm, subtly fragrant with some elusive per¬ 
fume. He knew instantly, in spite of the pres¬ 
ence of the two maids, that Jerry was expected 
to do her own room. The waste-basket had not 
been emptied. And lying among the silken cush¬ 
ions of the day bed, lay a soft rumpled bit of 
lavender and lace,—a handkerchief idly tossed 
and carelessly left there. 

He walked slowly up the three steps that led to 
the day bed, a pretty throne-like dais, with hang¬ 
ings of royal blue velvet, and he stood beside the 
silk and velvet couch that served as a bed for 
Jerry at night, looking down at it somberly. 
He lifted the bit of linen and lace and touched it 
to his lips and smiled at his own folly, telling 
himself he was getting to be a sentimental fool. 

247 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


There were but two photographs in the room, 
those of Prudence and Jerrold, handsomely 
framed in blue and gold. No countless snap¬ 
shots, no schoolgirl chums, no penciled sketches, 
just the two pictured faces she loved the best. 
Among the amber and golden articles on her 
dressing table lay a strand of crystal beads lightly 
dropped. 

There was only one picture upon the delicately 
tinted walls, and this surprised him, representing 
as it did the thought of one who had studied 
Art. It was a great green and white ocean, 
giant waves lashing themselves into foam and 
spray. 

There were built-in book shelves all over the 
room, and hundreds of books,—fairy tales, 
poetry, philosophy, love stories, wild adventures. 
He smiled at the breadth of interest displayed by 
the assortment and looking more closely he saw 
that it represented epochs,—new shelves having 
been added to accommodate the changing taste of 
increasing years. There was a book of poems in 
the window-seat, lying open, face down. He 
248 


IN JERRY’S CITADEL 


smiled again when he noticed among those on the 
shelves an occasional protruding bit of lace, or 
delicately colored linen. Obviously it was a fa¬ 
vorite trick of Jerry’s to mark her place in a book 
with the handkerchief she was using. Duane was 
boyishly pleased to have discovered this trait of 
hers, alone and unaided, in her absence. 

Turning about suddenly he lifted his eyes and 
started violently. He was directly opposite the 
rioting ocean of green and white and saw it 
clearly for the first time. He felt abashed as 
though it were Jerry herself, white, unashamed, 
who rode the waves before him. He looked 
away, curiously confused, embarrassed, and then 
went back to it. He stared at it, studied it, the 
slim white figure high and untrammeled on the 
highest wave. 

In the confident assurance of the joyous eyes, 
he saw Jerry,—Jerry as he had seen her first, 
as she stood with Aimee Glorian in Carter 
Blake’s studio,—with the warm welcome of her 
youth in her eyes,—Jerry, a-thirst for adventure, 
for romance. 


249 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


When he heard Jerrold whistling on the stair¬ 
way again, he went out quickly and closed the 
door. 

That same afternoon Jerrold took him out to 
see Jerry’s houses. Duane was fascinated with 
this phase of Jerry’s life. He had never dreamed 
she could do a thing so clever, he marveled at it, 
rejoiced over her success as though he were in 
some way responsible for her skill. He asked a 
thousand questions about it, the management, the 
financing, the profits. 

“That settles it for me,” he said decidedly. 
“I’m going to turn in on Iowa real estate. I’ll 
buy up old wrecks of houses for a song, turn 
them over to Jerry to gild them with her fairy 
wand, and we’ll both sit back on the cushions 
with the coupons! Pretty good, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, very good. The only objection that I 
see is that you don’t seem to be on any too pleas¬ 
ant terms with your prospective collaborator in 
the coupon business.” Then Jerrold went on 
soberly, “It would be a shame for her to give it 
up,—even for the sake of acquiring such a matri- 
250 


IN JERRY’S CITADEL 


monial prize as I am sure you would be. She is 
crazy about it,—and she is doing something 
worth while, too. All over town they are talking 
about it,—nobody dreamed she had such stuff in 
her. I didn’t myself. Prudence says—but you 
know Prudence.” 

“She won’t have to give it up,” Duane said, 
with as much assurance as though he had a final 
voice in the disposition of Jerry’s future. “I 
wouldn’t have her give it up for anything. It’s 
the cleverest thing I ever heard of,—and a girl 
like Jerry,—you just wouldn’t believe it! For 
the most part, I must admit I think the Iowa 
barns are a little more esthetic looking than the 
Iowa residences,—but of course it’s a farm state, 
—sweets to the wage earner, you might say.” 

“It isn’t as if we couldn’t afford a softening of 
the atmosphere, as Jerry calls it. There is money 
enough here for anything. The state is rich, 
almost too rich. But you know how we are, we 
middle westerners. We had such a tussle with 
nature in the beginning that we have sort of for¬ 
gotten how to make ourselves comfortable. 

251 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


These retired farmers have money to bum. They 
can pay for anything they want, but they don’t 
realize what they want until some one—like Jerry 
—shoves it right on to them.” 

“Then all I have to do now is to get clubby 
with Jerry,” Duane said. “I see our future. I 
buy up factory sites and inveigle big business 
into using them,—and Jerry dolls up their 
houses!” 

Those days in Jerry’s lovely home with Jerry’s 
father, Duane felt were the happiest of his entire 
life. They had breakfast together in the morn¬ 
ing, reading the papers over their coffee, drove to 
the factory together, and went out for luncheon 
to a cafe or club somewhere. And in the even¬ 
ing they played pinochle, smoked and read, some¬ 
times just smoked and talked. They went to the 
Princess to patronize the stock company which 
will go down in history as the start-in-life of Fay 
Bainter. Once Jerrold had some men in, and 
they played poker. 

Sometimes Duane forgot that Jerrold was to 
be his father-in-law, thought of him only as a 
252 


IN JERRY’S CITADEL 


remarkably companionable old chap, and easy to 
have around. 

“You know, Mr. Harmer,” he said one night, 
“since I’ve been so—so keen on Jerry—and so 
damned mad at her stubbornness—I’ve sort of 
lost interest in—you know—women and things. 
That’s not natural. Does it hang over,—or do 
you get back when you’ve been married a while?” 

“You act like a blase old roue,” said Jerrold, 
“but you talk like a kid.” And then he said with 
a great assumption of sternness, “See here, young 
fellow, I’m on Jerry’s side. Don’t you try to get 
anything out of me that you may be able to use 
against me later on. You stick to the straight 
and narrow.” He laughed a little. “I won’t say 
that in all my twenty years I haven’t felt the 
fleeting intrigue of a foreign dimple or curl, or 
maybe an ankle,—and there’s no denying that a 
woman does get on your nerves, especially the 
way she lugs your tobacco out of your reach,— 
but I’m strong for Prudence. But of course, 
there aren’t many Prudences. You wouldn’t ex¬ 
pect that.” 


253 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


One night he asked about that picture in Jerry’s 
room, the Ocean Rider. 

“It’s a haunting thing,” he said. “It makes 
you think of Jerry somehow—” 

“Oh, didn’t you know Theresa? The picture 
gave me the creeps, too, at first. The eyes are 
Jerry’s. She has nice eyes; maybe you’ve noticed 
it,” he added slyly. “Not as nice now, I think, as 
when she left. She looks more—cloudy. But 
very nice. The picture is a shock at first sight. 
Makes you feel as if you’ve caught her stepping 
out of the bath.” 

He told Duane then of Theresa and her tragic 
death, her even more tragic life. Duane was 
shocked, hurt. It seemed a terrible thing for 
Jerry to go through, and lacking the support of 
his tenderness and sympathy. He hated himself, 
as though he had failed her when she had need of 
him. 

Once he said, “Why do you suppose she 
wouldn’t flirt with me—when she did with 
others? And I know she—liked me well 
enough.” 


254 


IN JERRY’S CITADEL 


Jerrold said, “I don’t know, what do you 
think?” And did not realize he had caught that 
cleverness of evasion from his wife. 

“Did she tell you I was drunk that night?” 
Duane persisted morbidly. 

“Jerry never tells us things until she needs us,” 
said Jerrold proudly. “She struggles along by 
herself, until she knows she is whipped. Then 
she comes to Prudence and me. She was like 
that when she was a baby. She would work for 
half a day trying to fix a broken toy by herself— 
a thing I could do in a minute—but she never 
came until she had worn herself out working at 
it alone and found it too much for her. Prudence 
likes that; she thinks it shows character.” 

After a blissful week that was full of reminis¬ 
cences of Prudence and Jerry in the past and 
countless hopes for Prudence and Jerry in the 
future, the telegram came to announce their re¬ 
turning, and Jerrold said regretfully: 

“Sorry, old fellow, I’ve got to chuck you out. 
The girls will be home this evening.” 

Duane’s disappointment and his regret at leav- 
255 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


ing were almost childish. In the intimacy of 
Jerry’s home he had almost forgotten their 
estrangement and felt she should be coming to 
him as Prudence came back to Jerrold. 

“I wonder what would happen if I just stuck 
on and faced the music,” he said to Jerrold, “as 
if I had a right to be here.” 

“Oh, good lord,” was all Jerry’s father had to 
say. 

So Duane packed his bags bitterly, unhappily, 
and moved back to the sordid stupidity of his 
hotel room. 

Jerrold spent the rest of the day going through 
the house, removing every trace of evidence as to 
the presence of a guest. He cautioned the maids, 
over and over, to breathe not a word of what had 
transpired, and in the evening met his wife and 
daughter at the station. 

In deference to the returning of Prudence, he 
generously removed the bronze smoking-stand 
from the side of the bed and put it back in the 
stairway lounge where she had left it. He always 
made that concession on the night that Prudence 
256 


IN JERRY’S CITADEL 


returned. And Prudence in gratitude for his 
generosity, always carried it back when they went 
to bed, and put it where his hand could not fail 
to find it the moment he should awaken. 

He kissed Prudence first, kissed her twice. 
Then he turned to Jerry. Jerry always surprised 
him. She took hold of both his arms, and looked 
deep, deep into his eyes, her own unsmiling, 
pleading, anxious. Jerrold met them bravely, al¬ 
though his heart sank guiltily beneath the weight 
on his conscience. He wondered if he bore a 
mark engraved upon his features that her lynx- 
bright eyes could read and understand. 

But Jerry said nothing. She released her 
tense grip upon his arms after a moment, and 
kissed him. 


CHAPTER VIII 


BETWEEN FRIENDS 

D URING the dinner hour on an early even¬ 
ing in November Jerry was called to the 
telephone, and when she came back a moment 
later to her place there was a curious, quizzical 
smile upon her lips and in her eyes. 

“It was Adela Longley,” she explained. “She 
wanted me to go to the theater with her.” 

“Adela Longley!” Prudence was gently sur¬ 
prised. 

“Are you going?” asked Jerrold, with his usual 
lack of inter-penetration. 

“It was Adela Longley,” Jerry repeated, for 
his enlightenment. “Of course I am not going. 
I told her I am very busy to-night.” 

Jerry and her mother exchanged glances of 
smiling tolerance,—tolerance for Jerrold’s man¬ 
nish incomprehension of delicate social situations, 
258 


BETWEEN FRIENDS 


smiling because they loved him. For from New 
York down, the veriest hamlet has its central 
select set which seems a thing of merest idle 
chance, and yet the laws of the Medes and Per¬ 
sians themselves were not a whit more binding. 

Adela Longley was one who hovered as it were 
in the remote whorls of that society which circled 
about Jerry as a point of pivot. She belonged 
to the large social life of Des Moines, but was not, 
and could not be, a part of that inner nucleus 
which is so rigidly a thing apart. And yet Jerry 
was the very soul of democracy; she said she ab¬ 
horred snobbishness of all things in the world; 
she made no slightest distinction as to place or 
person,—only as to personality. She didn’t care 
for Adela Longley. “Oh, she’s a different sort, 
very nice of course,—I don’t care about her.” It 
was Adela, Jerry felt, who kept Adela in the so¬ 
cial fringe. 

“Maybe she thinks if she gets a little clubby 
with you I may give her a better price on a car,” 
suggested Jerrold, always glad to help out with 
his opinion. 


259 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Jerry was interested. “A car! Another car? 
Why, she has a car now!” 

“She’s tired of it. She wants to trade it in on 
a Harmer. She has been in three times this week 
to see about it.” 

Jerry lowered the misty lashes reflectively. 
Only Jerry knew how very strange a thing that 
was. She was not above sounding her father for 
confirmation of her suspicion. 

“She has a Harkness! It cost nearly five hun¬ 
dred dollars more than mine.” 

“Yes, she said she would have nothing but a 
Harkness in the beginning, but she doesn’t like it 
now she has it. She wants to trade it in for a 
Harmer roadster like yours.” 

“Like mine! But you had mine made specially 
for me, and I designed—” 

“Yes, I know. Duane told her—” 

“Who told her?” 

“Oh,—Mr. Allerton, you know, Duane Aller- 
ton. He is on the floor, you see. He showed 
her the models, and she’s been talking to him 
about it.” 


260 


BETWEEN FRIENDS 


“Oh, I see.” Jerry had her confirmation. 
“Well, go on. What did—he—tell her?” 

“He said we will not duplicate the body of 
your car for anybody, but that we will design 
another special for her, any style she likes. But 
we do not care to duplicate yours under any cir¬ 
cumstances.” 

“Adela Longley made fun of the Harmer 
when she got hers,” said Jerry reflectively. 
“She said she wanted a good car or none at all. 
The girls used to tease me about it.” 

“Well, maybe she thinks more of it now. 
Duane says she was enthusiastic about the demon¬ 
stration.” 

“Who gave her the demonstration?” 

“He did.” 

“I should think,” Jerry’s voice was so soft as 
to be almost inaudible, “I should think the sales¬ 
men would do that.” 

“They do ordinarily. But she had talked to 
him on the floor several times, and asked him 
particularly to take her out. So of course he 
did.” 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Jerry had lost her appetite for dinner. Her 
thoughts were running along a new line. 

“Myrtle Ingersoll and I went to a matinee 
Wednesday,” she said slowly. “She wanted to 
come by the office and ask you to go with us.” 

“Ask who?” 

“You, father. She thinks you are such a dear. 
I told her you are a perfect slave to business and 
never go out in the afternoon, and she wanted 
to come by and ask you anyhow, thought you 
might be pleased with the attention. I didn’t think 
anything of it then. But I’m thinking plenty now.” 

Jerrold laughed easily. “Oh, they think up 
sillier excuses than that to get a look at him. 
Not that I blame them at all! There aren’t 
enough good-looking young fellows to go the 
rounds here, you know.” 

It had not before occurred to Jerry to wonder 
what Duane was doing during the evening, with 
whom he was going out, what friendships he 
was forming. Now that this phase of the situa¬ 
tion was so forcibly drawn to her attention, she 
realized very clearly that in a town the size of 
262 


BETWEEN FRIENDS 


Des Moines, a young man of good appearance, 
who could dance, play bridge, and with great per¬ 
sonal charm to his credit, was not at all likely to 
pass by unobserved. 

“Do you talk to him much, father?’’ 

“Yes, every day. When I stay down-town, we 
have luncheon together. Or I send for him to 
come to the office and we smoke and talk a while. 
Some one in the family has to show a little com¬ 
mon politeness to strangers.” 

Jerry smiled faintly. “Who has taken him up, 
do you know ? Where does he go ? Or perhaps 
he doesn’t tell you.” 

“He does tell me. He’s been to the Weath- 
erbys’ several times. Weatherby likes him. And 
Billy Norton and young Doctor Morse have 
taken him up, and he plays pool and poker with 
them. He won nine and a quarter the other 
night, and took me out to luncheon on the money. 
—Let me see, was it Thursday I stayed down¬ 
town? And this Adela Longley asked him over 
Saturday night to a dance or something, but he 
was going to the show with Doctor Morse.” 

263 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Jerry sank more deeply into her brooding re¬ 
flection. Suddenly she started. 

“I—I hope you don’t ask him, father!” she 
gasped. 

Jerrold put his knife on his plate and gave her 
a stern look. “Am I in the habit of asking people 
what is none of my business?” he demanded 
sharply. “Let me see, Prudence, I was employ¬ 
ing quite a good number of men before Jerry was 
born, wasn’t I, and making out pretty well too, 
even without her on hand to help me with her 
advice as I remember it.” 

Jerry carefully concealed the brilliant eyes be¬ 
hind the protecting fringe of the silken lashes, 
until, knowing her father, she judged his resent¬ 
ment had time to cool. Then she looked across 
at him, with a softly pleading, smiling droop of 
her lips and when Jerrold, promptly placated, 
laughed a little, she said to Prudence: 

“Just see how independent he’s getting, mother. 
We’ll have to take him in hand a bit, or first thing 
you know, he’ll be entirely out from under our 
thumbs, and we shouldn’t like that at all.” 

264 


BETWEEN FRIENDS 


But if Jerry had been slowly aroused to the 
fact of Duane’s cordial reception at the hands 
of the middle western youth, she was quick to 
find conclusive corroboration of it. 

The next morning, Miriam Grover called up to 
invite Jerry over that same evening for a game of 
bridge. 

“I met Mr. Allerton over at Edith Weatherby’s 
last night, and I think he is perfectly stunning,” 
she told Jerry blithely. “And he has been here 
nearly two months! I think it was downright 
stingy of you, Jerry! Well, they are all coming 
here to-night to play cards, and you must come, 
for we are counting on you! I’m going to have 
a regular old-fashioned Dutch supper at eleven, 
and then we’ll dance,—just eight of us. I asked 
Fritz Gresham for you, Jerry, and—” 

And, then Jerry was able to edge neatly into 
the conversation to explain that she had a very 
important business matter on hand,—one of her 
houses, you know,—and wasn’t it a shame? But 
Jerry could not possibly accept. 

And if further corroboration were necessary, 
265 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


she received it in painful plenitude on Monday 
evening, at Grace McCartney’s shower for Rae 
Forsythe, when all the girls of their particular 
clique were together. Jerry was late in arriving, 
and was greeted at once with a gay protesting 
outburst. 

“Oh, Jerry, how could you be so selfish!” 

“Jerry Harmer, you ought to be ashamed of 
yourself! Anything as good-looking as that!” 

“Where in the world did your father find it?” 

Jerry realized it would be foolish to pretend 
ignorance as to their meaning, in a town as small 
and as fraternal as Des Moines. She laughed it 
off as best she could, explained gaily that she left 
the management of the Harmer Motor to her 
father, and agreed that Duane Allerton was cer¬ 
tainly a very handsome thing. 

“Do you know him, Jerry?” asked Edith 
Weatherby. 

“Yes, I met him in New York.” 

This was greeted with merry, significant excla¬ 
mations and laughter. 

“Oh, so it’s like that!” they cried. 

266 


BETWEEN FRIENDS 


“No wonder!” 

“It seems he had some sort of financial re¬ 
verses,” she went on quickly. “I don’t know 
much about it, but he wanted to make a change, 
and you know father is always taking on men.” 

“Do you like him, Jerry?” persisted Edith 
Weatherby. 

Jerry was not to be caught unguarded. “Of 
course. Why not ? I hardly know the man.” 

“And you’re not personally interested, are 
you?” continued her interrogator. “Because he 
told me he had lost a lot of money, and I told 
father—father likes him very much—and I told 
father I was sure he would rather work in a bank 
than in a factory. You know my father is 
always taking on men, too.” 

Jerry’s eyes were serene and unclouded. “Yes, 
of course. That would be lovely for Mr. Aller- 
ton. I am sure his opportunity would be much 
greater in the bank than with my father.” 

More than ever Jerry regretted that hasty im¬ 
pulse of hers which had brought Duane Allerton 
to Iowa. And yet she took a bitter, morbid 
267 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


satisfaction in having them know that after all 
she had known him first, that she had been in a 
sense the motive of his coming,—as indeed she 
had, and in a far more intimate sense than Jerry 
would have them suspect. 

After that she heard of him on every hand, 
indeed it seemed to her she heard of nothing else, 
and was increasingly grateful for a real business 
interest to occupy her time and her hands, if not 
altogether her vagrant thoughts. 

On the evening of Thanksgiving occurred the 
annual dinner-dance at the club, one of the real 
events of the year to which the younger set at 
least looked forward for weeks with keen antici¬ 
pation. Usually Jerry made one of a group of 
her particular friends, while Prudence and Jer- 
rold filled up a table with couples of their own 
age and interests. But for this night, Jerry per¬ 
sistently refused all invitations, and insisted on 
a family trio, Prudence, Jerrold and herself. To 
her friends she said she thought her mother would 
like it. To Prudence she said honestly: 

“Oh, mother, I’m tired! I don’t feel like pre- 
268 


BETWEEN FRIENDS 


tending to be interested in a lot of things—when 
I am not.” 

On the afternoon of the dance she sat curled 
in a big chair before the fire with a magazine she 
did not read, and Jerrold sat opposite her with 
the evening paper, smoking, and neither of them 
answered when Prudence reminded them for the 
third time that they must hurry and dress. 
Finally, at her insistence, Jerrold dropped the 
paper and sighed. 

‘Tm getting too old for such goings-on,” he 
said plaintively. “I feel just like sitting here in 
my own house by my own fire, and going to bed 
at a respectable hour.” 

‘Too late,” Prudence told him, laughing. 
“You have to go or you get no dinner. Mary 
and Katie have gone out, and there is nothing to 
eat. You must go with us or fast.” 

Jerrold sighed again. Then he turned to 
Jerry, with the news that had been a burden to 
him for two days. 

“Oh! Jerry—by the way,—Duane will be 
there.” 


269 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Jerry did not move, did not turn her eyes. 
“Oh, will he?” 

“Yes. The Weatherbys asked him to go, and 
he asked me what I thought of it, and I told him 
to go by all means. I don’t feel that he should 
miss a good time just because you feel a little— 
er—sensitive about his presence, do you? It’s a 
wonder you haven’t run into him before this. 
They’re inviting him everywhere. And be¬ 
sides—” 

“Oh, don’t hesitate on my account. Go right 
ahead. Besides what?” 

“Besides, as I’ve said before, there are more 
nice girls in this town than there are nice boys. 
Other men have daughters as well as I, and 
daughters require beauing. And I must say 
that some fathers seem to have daughters with a 
greater degree of that sweet reasonableness they 
talk about than my own.” 

Jerry smiled sympathetically. “Poor father !” 
she said. “You did have rather bad luck, getting 
only me. But however much you may prefer 
other fathers’ daughters to your own, you can’t 
270 


BETWEEN FRIENDS 


get rid of me. No trading daughters. Things 
aren’t done that way. You must keep what you 
get, whether you like it or not.” 

She touched him lightly on the shoulder as she 
passed by and went quickly up the stairs. 

Jerrold looked at Prudence. 

“Is she going?” he asked in a loud whisper. 

“I don’t know.” 

They tiptoed together to the doorway and 
listened. There was no sound from Jerry’s room 
above. 

They tiptoed back. “Now if she has any 
notion of going there and snubbing him in public, 
I won’t stand for it,” Jerrold said, still whisper¬ 
ing. “After all, she brought him here, and she 
shan’t—” 

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. She wants 
to make him eat the dust before her, but she’ll 
never give anybody else a chance to laugh at him. 
You’ll see!” And then she added, half hope¬ 
fully, half wistfully, “Perhaps they will make it 
all up to-night, and then we’ll have him here for 
Thanksgiving dinner to-morrow!” 

271 


CHAPTER IX 


A LITTLE FOR REMEMBRANCE 

A T a quarter to seven, Prudence tapped lightly 
on Jerry’s door. 

“We’re ready, sweetness,” she said. 

“I’ll be right down.” Jerry’s voice from be¬ 
hind the closed door was very low, a little 
strained. She did not ask her mother to come in, 
and Prudence made no such offer, but went 
directly down and stood silently, anxiously beside 
her husband in the lower hall and awaited the 
coming of her daughter. 

Jerry wore the flame-colored gown of chiffon 
velvet, and as she stood above them on the steps, 
smiling down at them, involuntarily they ex¬ 
claimed at the fresh bright revelation of her 
beauty. 

“Of course a daughter studying Art in New 
York will wear what she pleases—in New York,” 
said Jerrold, frowning with a great assumption of 
272 


A LITTLE FOR REMEMBRANCE 


disapproval, although his eyes shone with his 
pride and pleasure in her loveliness. “But if you 
ask me,—though nobody did,—I call that dress 
a little—well, snappy for the old home town.” 

“It is beautiful,” said Prudence. “I thought 
you did not like it, Jerry. You haven’t worn it 
once since you came home.” 

Jerrold carefully placed the great cloak about 
his daughter’s shoulders. 

“You have too much rouge on,” he objected. 

“I know it,” she assented. “But I am a shock¬ 
ing color to-night in the natural. So pale I am 
positively yellow. Do you think perhaps I may 
be getting thin-blooded, mother? I never used 
to look so white.” 

“Perhaps you need a tonic,” Prudence sug¬ 
gested, though she knew in her heart that Jerry 
needed no such thing. 

Jerrold carefully assisted Prudence and Jerry 
into the car and sat in the corner beside them, 
holding Jerry’s hand. 

Jerrold would have considered it an affectation 
to have a chauffeur drive him about town, “able- 
273 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


bodied and in my right mind for the most part/’ 
as he always said, but on rare and state occasions 
like the present he had one of the boys from 
the factory take them out while he sat with 
the others in the tonneau of the limousine, rigidly 
erect and alert and always prepared for the 
worst. 

Jerry laughed at him. “Settle down, father, 
settle down,” she urged, snuggling her fingers 
closer into his hand. “We’ll die together, en 
famille, that’s one comfort.” 

Jerry’s fingers were like ice. But there was 
nothing of drooping sadness in her pose, rather 
with a strained alertness she remained stiffly up¬ 
right, her eyes brilliant, her slender chin tilted to 
an unwontedly high degree. 

They knew every one at the club house, and as 
they made their way to the table reserved for 
them in a far corner, they were obliged to stop 
by many chairs for a laughing word with one and 
another. They saw Duane on the moment of 
their entrance. He was at a table with Irvin 
Weatherby and his wife and Edith, the oldest of 
274 


A LITTLE FOR REMEMBRANCE 


his three daughters. Happily, that table was not 
directly on the aisle they passed through. They 
lifted their hands to Jerry as she went by, 
nodding, laughing, and Jerry swept them all in 
a quick bright greeting, forming the words, “I’ll 
see you later,” with her lips as she passed. 

Duane was amazed at the studied perfection of 
her manner, the absolutely impersonal friendli¬ 
ness of her glance. 

“Let me get some one to sit with us,” Jerrold 
suggested, as they reached their table. “I’m 
afraid we may seem dull. We should have made 
up a party.” 

Jerry put a pleading hand on his arm. “No, 
father, please. I’d so much rather be—just by 
ourselves.” 

“I don’t want him to think you—we—I don’t 
want any one to think—anything.” 

Jerrold floundered for words. In his partisan¬ 
ship of Jerry, he would have no stranger, not 
Duane Allerton nor any other, have a chance to 
suspect her of any loneliness or subject to any 
slight. 


275 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Jerry smiled gratefully for his concern as she 
slipped prettily into her chair. She shook her 
head. 

“You certainly are a sweet old thing, father. 
But I am not trying to impress him. I don’t 
care to make him jealous. I don’t want to try 
any childish bluffing. I just feel like having you 
and mother. So why bother?” 

For at least the thousandth time in his life, 
Jerrold told himself, proudly, that Jerry was a 
little brick. She looked about the great room 
with her usual air of friendly interest, nodded to 
her friends here and there, chatted a little with 
those near her, and discussed the gowns, com¬ 
plexions and coiffures of the other women with 
her mother. She even made a brave pretense of 
eating her dinner as it was placed before her. 
But when once in a while her fingers touched her 
father’s hand, the icy chill of them cut him like a 
lash. 

At first, in his loyalty to her, he would not even 
look across to the Weatherby table after that first 
greeting as they entered the room. But finally, 
276 


A LITTLE FOR REMEMBRANCE 


when he realized that Jerry had herself perfectly 
in hand and needed no anxiety of his, he turned 
that way. Duane’s eyes, smoldering, somber, 
were fixed upon her lovely profile, the cloudy 
blackness of her dark hair, the creamy whiteness 
of her throat and the shoulder half turned from 
him. 

Jerrold could not withhold a friendly, sympa¬ 
thetic smile, and Duane responded with a grate¬ 
ful, unsmiling nod. 

“Any fool could see what’s in his mind,” Jer¬ 
rold thought. “The whole town will be buzzing 
with it now.” 

When they went into the ballroom, the or¬ 
chestra was playing. They found a pleasant place 
for Prudence to sit, and Jerry danced with her 
father. Then she danced with young Doctor 
Morse, and then with Newton Macklin, each time 
returning to her place beside her mother. It was 
after the third dance, when Duane had performed 
his duty as guest to his hostess and to Edith and 
had sat out a stupid dance with old Mr. Weather- 
by, that he excused himself with stumbling words, 
277 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


and with stubborn determination, with trepida¬ 
tion in his heart, he turned his steps toward Jerry. 

They saw him coming. Jerrold’s pleasant 
smile froze upon his features, and he toyed nerv¬ 
ously with the narrow chain at his watch. Pru¬ 
dence held her breath. Only Jerry kept up her 
light bright chatter, although her fingers shook. 
Duane continued doggedly toward her, his eyes 
upon the cloudy blackness of her hair. 

Jerrold spoke quickly as he drew near, holding 
out his hand. His voice was very friendly. 

“Oh, hello, Duane. How do you like the 
Middle West at its very wickedest?” 

“Oh, very much, sir, thank you.” Duane 
clung to his hand like a man drowning, but Jer¬ 
rold passed him on, perforce, to Prudence. 

“You’ve met my wife, I know—” 

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Harmer. But it seems a very 
long time. It is very good to see you again.” 

Prudence lifted her hand, lifted both hands, 
greeted him with a warm, almost foolish effusive¬ 
ness, but she could not postpone the inevitable. 
He looked beyond her to Jerry. 

278 


A LITTLE FOR REMEMBRANCE 


“G—good evening,” he said lamely, and his 
eyes were riveted to the haughty lift of her chin. 

Jerry smiled. Mindful of the eyes of the 
friendly, always interested home town, she lifted 
a slender, ice-cold hand and dropped it for a 
moment in his. She caught her breath at the 
sudden contact. If he retained it, if he drew it 
warmly into his, caressed it, as he had done in the 
studio that unforgotten and unforgettable night, 
she knew she could not withstand the tenderness 
of his touch. Duane held it barely a second 
longer than is allowed by a strict convention, and 
released it slowly. 

“W—will you sit down?” she offered gener¬ 
ously, in gratitude for his relinquishment. 

The way he dropped into a chair beside her 
gave somehow the impression of a ship tossed in 
a stormy sea, suddenly and surprisingly finding 
that its anchor held. 

“Oh, mother, look!” said Jerry brightly. 
“There’s Judge Harris and his new little wife 
from California.” She explained to Duane. 
“Judge Harris is one of the city pillars, has been 
279 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


for centuries, it seems. And a few weeks ago 
he amazed everybody by marrying a seventeen- 
year-old girl on the coast. Naturally he is our 
chief subject of gossip. She is pretty, isn’t she? 
Perhaps people will think she is only his 
daughter.” 

Duane professed a tremendous interest in the 
wild marriage of the old judge, and the four of 
them discussed it down to the minutest detail, un¬ 
til the subject sank of its own weight and died 
away. 

There was an awkward interval. 

“Will you dance, Mrs. Harmer?” Duane asked 
desperately. 

Prudence stood up at once. “I’d love to,” 
she declared, quite as if she meant it. 

Then Jerry laughed. She touched her hand to 
Duane’s arm. “Let me warn you! Mother can 
not dance. She is likely to do perfectly terrible 
things on the floor. Father and I have been 
teaching her to dance for twenty years, and she 
can’t do it yet! She’s only trying to be polite 
to you.” 


280 


A LITTLE FOR REMEMBRANCE 


“Oh, Jerry,” protested Prudence, blushing. 
“Sometimes I am sure I get along quite 
nicely.” 

“I am not a bit alarmed,” Duane assured her. 
And then to Jerry, very pleadingly, “Please 
wait.” 

Prudence had a little difficulty getting the step 
at first. “Is—is it a waltz?” she asked apologetic¬ 
ally. “I never can tell the silly things apart.” 

He laughed at her confusion. “It’s a fox-trot. 
Never mind, we’ll get on finely, I know. Just 
walk. Why, your daughter was very unjust to 
you,—you dance famously! And all my fears 
were groundless.” 

Prudence was in a desperate quandary. She so 
wanted to be pleasant to the poor boy, but when 
she talked she always lost the step. She danced 
conscientiously half-way around the room, be¬ 
fore she spoke. 

“I am so glad to see you again, Mr. Allerton. 
I—I wish things were a little different. I know 
we should be very good friends—if we had a 
chance.” 


281 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


"Would you mind—I suppose you would rather 
not call me—Duane,” he said hopefully yet 
diffidently. 

"I’d love to. It is a nice name, isn’t it? And 
Jerrold and I always speak of you as Duane— 
when we are alone.” 

Duane smiled a little ruefully at that. "Your 
husband is wonderful to me,” he said. "I never 
met any one like him before. He—he is just 
fine.” 

"Yes, isn’t he? I knew you would like him.” 

Duane patiently helped her back into the 
rhythm, and when they were dancing smoothly 
again, unable to resist his great desire to talk of 
Jerry he said: 

"She is so beautiful, isn’t she? She seems 
lovelier every time I see her.” 

"Yes, she is a beautiful girl. Every one says 

__ 

so. 

"She always seems so—well poised,—so so¬ 
phisticated. She is always sure of herself, never 
perturbed. Sophisticated, that is the word for it. 
That was what deceived me about her at first.” 

282 


A LITTLE FOR REMEMBRANCE 


“Yes, she looks sophisticated, but really she is 
the most innocent and artless thing imaginable. 
You’d be surprised. ,, 

“Yes. I was.” 

“Girls are like that now. They get that air of 
advanced maturity when they are no more than 
children. They talk of the most intimate and— 
secret—things in the most outspoken manner. 
And they don’t really know what they are talking 
about! They pick up a lot of superficial expres¬ 
sions from the books they read, from plays, from 
movies,—they think it is quite clever to repeat 
what they hear,—clever and just a bit shocking. 
At heart they are just as innocent as we were 
when we were young. But they sound—oh, so 
very much worse! If the twins had talked the 
way girls do now—well, I should probably have 
spanked them.” 

“I don’t think the others are like Jerry though, 
—such an air of assurance, and such artless inno¬ 
cence beneath it.” 

“Oh, yes, Duane, most young girls are like that 
in the beginning. And men never understand it. 
283 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


They think girls really know and understand 
the things they talk about so freely. They don’t 
at all. And so quite innocently they lead them on 
and on—” 

“And whose fault, Mrs. Harmer, in the end? 
It was mine, I know, in our case. But I was sure 
she was—playing the game. I never dreamed of 
anything else. The way she looked, the way she 
talked,—” 

“Why, Duane, I’ve heard those girls, Jerry and 
her friends, say things to each other, discuss 
things, that honestly I should not dream of saying 
to one of my sisters,—even to Jerrold! They 
don’t know what they’re talking about, I tell you. 
They think it’s smart to appear sophisticated and 
blase—and at heart they are children. Oh, after 
a while they learn—but they haven’t yet. Isn’t 
it too bad that men don’t understand them—as 
their mothers do?” 

When they returned to Jerrold and Jerry, 
who were waiting for them, Prudence said 
brightly: 

“Now, you see, Jerry, I did very well, after 
284 


A LITTLE FOR REMEMBRANCE 


all! I was only out of step a time or two, wasn’t 
I, Dua—Mr. Allerton? And we talked all the 
time, and you know usually I can’t talk when 
I’m dancing. I think I may learn after all—in 
time.” 

Others came up, joined the little group, chatted 
a while and drifted on. When the music began 
again, Duane turned to Jerry. 

“W—will you dance?” 

“Yes,” she answered briefly. 

When they had moved away, Jerrold turned to 
Prudence. 

“She can say what she likes, and you may be¬ 
lieve it if you want to. But Jerry wanted to 
dance with him. Half a dozen boys came up and 
asked her to dance, and she made excuses every 
time. She was just waiting for him to come 
back.” 

Prudence smiled at his stupidity and said 
nothing. 

Jerry and Duane had danced the full length 
of the room without a word between them. 

“Jerry,” he said at last, very softly, “I realize, 
285 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


of course, that you wore this gown mostly in de¬ 
fiance but I hope it was just a little bit for re¬ 
membrance too.” 

“Mr. Allerton, please—” 

“Duane,” he interrupted. “You called me 
Duane in New York that night.” 

She lifted a slender shoulder, abandoned the 
use of the name entirely. “I would not for the 
world humiliate you before other people. But 
you must help me. They know I met you in 
New York—they are watching us together. 
Make it easy for me, won’t you? Stay away 
from me. Talk to the others—” 

“Jerry, how can you ask me to see any one else 
when you are here ?” 

“Oh, please don’t!” 

They danced for a while in silence. 

“Jerry! Was it a little for remembrance?” 

“Mr. Allerton, I asked you to help me. I am 
trying so hard to let things go off—nicely—so no 
one will suspect—anything. Don’t make it 
harder for me than it is already.” 

“But, Jerry, if you would only let me talk to 
286 


A LITTLE FOR REMEMBRANCE 


you—just once—let me tell you—let me ex¬ 
plain— 

“There isn’t a thing in the world to tell me, a 
thing in the world to explain. I understand you 
perfectly—now. And I am not such a fool as to 
think you don’t understand me as well. I know 
you do.” And then she added bitterly, “With 
the experience you’ve had.” 

His eyes contracted sharply at the cruelty of 
her words. “You didn’t need to turn the knife, 
Jerry. The first cut was sharp enough.” 

Again they danced in silence. 

“Jerry, I love you. Doesn’t that make any 
difference ?” 

“No. If you love me—it does not make any 
difference.” 

After a long interval he said very softly, 
“Jerry, tell me, when you are with me—like this 
—doesn’t it make you think a little bit—of that 
night in the studio? You were so sweet, Jerry. 
You were the loveliest thing I ever saw. I shall 
never forget the feeling I had when you first 
looked up at me—the flame-colored gown—your 
287 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


cloudy black hair—and most of all, that brave 
glad brightness in your eyes. Oh, Jerry, it was 
a wonderful night,—you can’t deny that,—it was 
a beautiful night,—you can’t—” 

“Don’t do that!” Jerry’s voice was low, very 
intense. “Don’t! I am trying—so hard—to let 
things go— When you talk to me—like that— 
I’ve just got to be insulting to you to—keep—” 
“To keep from loving me, Jerry,” he finished 
for her, when her voice faltered. 

Jerry lifted her misty blue eyes under the 
shadowing fringe of the dark lashes, looked at 
him, directly, very frankly, and answered sur¬ 
prisingly : 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, Jerry,” he pleaded. “You love me al¬ 
ready. You can’t put me off any longer, you—” 
A slight, almost imperceptible movement, and 
Jerry was free of his arm. She called softly 
aeross to Newton Macklin standing near them. 

“Oh, Newton, we have been looking every¬ 
where for you.” When he had joined them, she 
slipped her fingers in his arm. She looked at 
288 


A LITTLE FOR REMEMBRANCE 


Duane with ice-cold eyes, and smiled, with ice- 
cold lips. “It was a wonderful dance, Mr. Aller- 
ton. Will you tell mother I am going with New¬ 
ton to find Rae Forsythe, and that I shall stay 
with the girls for a while? Thank you so much.” 

Duane merely bowed, said nothing, and turned 
away. 

“Newton,” Jerry whispered faintly, “I feel 
sick. Will you take me home? Mother is hav¬ 
ing such a nice time, I don’t want to bother her. 
Will you take me home, and then come back and 
tell her later on ?” 


CHAPTER X 


jerry’s plaything 

I N THE first week of December there was a 
heavy middle-west blizzard, and for two days 
the city cowered under stinging winds and cutting 
sleet. After that came a still, biting cold, that 
warmed gradually to a blanketing snowfall. And 
on the fifth day when the streets were packed 
to a slick but solid bottom, Jerry, unable to 
endure the brooding loneliness of her thoughts 
any longer, got out the roadster and went for a 
careful ice-cold ride between fields of dazzling 
whiteness, along roadways flanked with snow- 
bowed trees. 

It was late in the afternoon when she turned 
back. As she drove through town, at the corner 
of Sixth and Locust Streets, she was held up by 
the traffic officer, standing foremost of the cars 
awaiting his signal. Jerry waited, as always, 
with alert eyes on the officer’s hand, her foot 
290 


JERRY'S PLAYTHING 


poised for a sharp pressure on the gas throttle to 
make the quick get-away on which she prided her¬ 
self, when the tide of the traffic was turned. 

“Jerry! You beautiful thing!" 

The half-tender, half-mocking voice was 
directly beside her. Jerry caught her breath. 
She did not turn her head, did not waver her 
intent gaze upon the detaining officer. She knew 
without looking that he was close to the car, lean¬ 
ing toward her, his chin grimly set, his eyes 
unsmiling. Jerry knew she could endure no 
more. 

In that moment she received the signal. She 
flung the car into gear, pressed hard upon the 
throttle, and the “Baby" sprang forward like a 
catapult. Jerry heard a warning whistle from 
the officer to reprove her for her reckless speed, 
but she did not pause, nor look behind. She 
drove with rigid, iron-set muscles, up the beautiful 
glistening avenue, and whirled into the garage 
behind the house. Jerry had reached the end of 
her resistance. As in her childish days she had 
struggled with the broken toy until convinced of 
291 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


her impotency, so now she realized the ineffective¬ 
ness of her struggle against the love of this man. 
She would leave it to Prudence and Jerry. 

She was late and made haste to slip into a fresh 
dress, brushing her hair, powdering her creamy 
skin with her usual gentle care. She was very 
quiet during dinner, and Prudence’s eyes rested 
upon her often with troubled, unobtrusive sym¬ 
pathy. And after dinner, while her father read 
the evening paper, and while Prudence worked 
with an absurd bit of lace that was becoming a 
handkerchief to correspond with Jerry’s newest 
gown, she sat in a great chair under a shaded 
lamp, a magazine upon her lap, and stared across 
it to the delicate pattern of the Oriental rug. 
Jerry was considering how to surrender the 
broken toy. 

The sudden ringing of the door-bell caused her 
to start violently, although she laughed immedi¬ 
ately at the absurdity of her nervous tension. 
And when Katie came into the room and said in 
an awed voice: 

“It’s a policeman, and he wants to see Miss 
292 





“Jerry! You beautiful thing!” 
































































































f 






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«• 










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r 











































































'? 














•« 









































JERRY’S PLAYTHING 


Harmer,” Jerry was only amused,—curious but 
not concerned. 

“You’ve been speeding, miss, and you pay 
your own fines,” said Jerrold. “Bring him in, 
Katie.” 

“Speeding! Good heavens, I crawled at a 
snail’s pace,” she denied lightly. And added 
slowly, “Most of the time,” as she remembered 
the burst of speed with which she left Locust 
Street. 

With the usual easy clubbiness of the small 
town and the Middle West, Jerrold asked the 
officer whom he had often seen and knew by 
name, to sit down, offered him a cigar. 

“This is my daughter,” he said pleasantly, indi¬ 
cating Jerry in the great chair. “You wanted to 
see her?” 

“Yes, if you don’t mind,” the officer began. 
“There was an accident down town to-day, and 
if the chap dies Miss Harmer may be needed as 
a witness. Whether he dies or not, he may bring 
suit, and then—” 

“Why, I didn’t see any accident,” protested 
293 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Jerry in some surprise. “Every one was driving 
carefully because of the ice. I came through 
town, but I didn’t even see a flat tire.” 

The officer looked at his note-book. “Man 
run over. A fellow named Grilton drove the 
car that did the damage, we’ve got him locked 
up waiting to see if the man dies. Now he says 
he saw you right beside him, a little in front. He 
says he has seen you often, knows you, knows 
your car and—” 

“Oh, I assure you I saw nothing,” Jerry denied 
quietly. 

“He swears the chap stood beside your car, 
his foot on the running-board, talking to you, and 
that you started off in a great rush—” 

Jerry did not move, did not speak, sat as one 
turned to ice. 

Prudence got up quickly and crossed to 
her chair, sitting down lightly upon the great 
arm of it, her firm soft fingers lying against 
Jerry’s frozen hand. Jerry tried to smile at her, 
to nod reassurance. The attempt wrung her 
mother’s heart. 


294 


JERRY’S PLAYTHING 


The officer, unnoticing, had continued his nar¬ 
rative. "Started off very fast, with a great jerk, 
and swung the fellow back so he slipped on the 
ice. And Grilton was right behind you and ran 
over him before he knew he had fallen. Of 
course, 'if the fellow was bothering you, Miss 
Harmer—” he suggested, with the solicitous in¬ 
terest of an officer in a small city where her fa¬ 
ther was a man of power. 

"He was not bothering my daughter, I assure 
you,” Prudence interrupted softly. "The young 
man is a great friend of ours, a very particular 
friend. Nothing he could do would annoy my 
daughter in any way.” 

Jerrold came quickly to her assistance, enlight¬ 
ened by Prudence’s defense, his less agile imag¬ 
ination having followed through the situation 
more slowly. 

"My daughter drives fast, as you probably 
know, but she is a good driver and a careful one. 
She did not know there had been an accident. If 
she is in any way to blame, you may rest assured 
we shall not shirk our responsibility.” 

295 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“Of course, of course, I just wanted to see if 
she would back up Grilton’s story—” 

Jerry nodded her head. 

“Oh, yes,” Jerrold went on quickly. “The 
man you mention, Mr. Allerton, I believe, did 
speak to her beside the car and my daughter, in a 
great hurry to get home, started off very fast. 
She did not know he had fallen. She is naturally 
very much upset over the whole thing. She is 
simply horrified as you see. Can’t you wait until 
to-morrow, to give her a chance to—to re¬ 
cover—•” 

“Oh, my dear sir, we’re not blaming Miss 
Harmer. It was this fellow Grilton did it. And 
of course the other chap,—what’s his name,”—he 
consulted the note-book—“Allerton,—he may not 
die anyhow, and—” 

Jerry winced pitifully. 

“Tell us,—” Prudence hesitated to ask, fearing 
the effect upon Jerry, who clung to her hand. 
“He is hurt—how seriously?” 

“Oh, you can’t tell yet. They’ve got him up at 
St. Joseph’s. There may be internal injuries, 
296 


JERRY’S PLAYTHING 


can’t tell yet. Now don’t you be upset about it, 
Miss Harmer, nobody’s blaming you. But if he 
should happen to die, you see, you’ll have to 
testify at the inquest and it’ll be up to the state to 
prosecute.” 

Jerry was a stony, graven image, and Jerrold 
hurriedly got the officer out of the room and 
away, and then came back and stood beside Jerry 
on the other side from Prudence, two stalwart 
bulwarks of love and pity. Jerry looked up at 
them, and smiled. 

“Mother,” she said, “I love him—I loved him 
all the time.” 

“Yes, I know, sweetness.” Prudence was 
brooding tenderness itself. “Get the car, Jerrold, 
and ask Katie to bring our coats.” 

“He—he kissed me, and he was—drunk, 
mother. I thought he felt—just as I did,—and 
he was only—drunk. I don’t even know if he 
remembers—that he kissed me.” 

Katie came in with their coats and at a sign 
from Prudence went out at once, leaving her 
alone with her daughter. Jerry stood up, and 
297 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


her mother put the great fur cloak about her 
shoulders very gently. Jerry did not know that 
she was trembling. 

“You wouldn’t feel—nice about it, mother,— 
to know it was only that when you thought it was 
•—something else.” 

“No, sweetness, I shouldn’t like it.” 

Jerrold honked shrilly to them from the car 
outside the door, and with her hand in Pru¬ 
dence’s, Jerry herself led the way. As they drove 
swiftly along toward the hospital, no word was 
spoken. 

Jerry sat erect and motionless, staring upon 
the snow which the lights of the city sprinkled 
With scintillating gems. 

When Jerrold, after first helping Prudence out, 
telling her to be careful, to mind the ice, not to 
fall, went back to assist Jerry, he said a little 
awkwardly, but determined that she must have 
his view of things at last: 

“Jerry, all men are fools sometimes. You 
shouldn’t expect too much of any of us, you 
know,—not all the time, at least.” 

298 


JERRY'S PLAYTHING 


Jerry nodded her head trying to smile her ap¬ 
preciation of his effort to help. 

“There are a lot of fine things about him," he 
went on determinedly. “I—I had him stay up 
at the house with me while you were in Mount 
Mark." 

“I know it, father.” 

Jerrold shook his head, vaguely puzzled. How 
women got on to things the way they did, there 
was no knowing. He had covered all his tracks 
so carefully. 

“That was why I looked at you that night at 
the station," she said, in a subdued little voice. 
“To see if you had anything against him." 

“Not a thing," he declared, “not a thing in the 
world. I like him." 

“I know it," whispered Jerry. 


CHAPTER XI 


HOW JERRY LOVED 

E VEN hospital rules and regulations give way 
to reason and romance in times of bitter 
stress, and it took Jerrold no more than three 
minutes to have all the red tape of St. Joseph’s 
crooked about his little finger. And then they 
were taken, very quickly, very quietly, to a little 
white room where Duane Allerton lay and waited 
for Jerry. 

There was a nurse in the room, but at a sign 
from the one who brought them, she went out, 
quickly, smiling back over her shoulder. Duane 
lay very still on the white bed. His eyes were 
closed. The olive tan of his skin was ivory white. 

Prudence and Jerrold stood back, softly, and 
Jerry walked before them into the room, moving 
as one in a dream, her great shadowy eyes fast¬ 
ened almost hypnotically upon the white face on 
the pillow. 


300 


HOW JERRY LOVED 


He opened his eyes and a warm brightness 
flashed into them when he saw Jerry beside him. 
He smiled—that whimsical, tender smile whose 
gay effrontery had charmed and stirred her from 
the first. 

“ Jerry,” he said, and the tender voice was 
weak, “you’ve got to admit it was treating me 
pretty badly.” 

He looked up at her, not smiling now. And 
Jerry stood over him, her eyes melting into his, 
agonizingly intense. Suddenly she wilted. Tears 
rushed to her eyes, the proud little chin drooped 
and quivered. She turned, £ crushed and broken 
figure toward her mother, even in that hour of its 
renunciation the tender dream of her youth dying 
hard within her and cried despairingly: 

“I can’t help it! Maybe it is a different kind,— 
the feeling is just the same.” 

She dropped on her knees beside the bed, the 
pain in her face, the shadow in her eyes, yielding 
to a joyous radiance as she pressed her lips 
against his shoulder. 


CHAPTER XII 


OF DREAMS COME TRUE 

J ERRY’S surrender was as complete as her 
resistance had been. Regardless of the ad¬ 
monitions of the nurse and the restrictions of the 
hospital, regardless of the presence of her father 
and mother, who tried studiously to keep their 
eyes away from her, she hung over Duane, on 
her knees beside the white bed, kissed him, 
caressed his face, weeping bitterly. It was Duane 
himself with his usual facetious, kindly courtesy, 
who intervened once in a while to stem the tide 
of her tumultuous emotions. 

“Now, Jerry,” he said, taking advantage of a 
slight subdual of her tears, “you’ll have to marry 
me. You’ve kissed me and encouraged me, and 
made love to me, before witnesses.” 

Jerry laughed tearfully. “All right, I will,” 
she said tremulously, yet gladly. “And just as 
soon as you like! To-morrow, if you say so.” 
302 


OF DREAMS COME TRUE 


Prudence and Jerrold turned to them then 
anxiously, and Duane’s eyes searched their plead¬ 
ing faces. He drew Jerry closer in his arm. 

“This Prudence of yours told me,” he said, 
with a tender smile to apologize for his use of 
that sacred name, “she told me, that if that first 
warm wakening up stops short on better acquaint¬ 
ance, it is nothing. But if it goes on and on, it 
is love at first sight. Let’s wait a little, Jerry, 
and give ours a chance to go on and on. Just a 
little!” 

Prudence’s slender figure, which had stiffened 
into anxious rigidity at ferry’s impulsive offer, 
relaxed softly, and tears of grateful pleasure came 
to her eyes. 

Jerry drooped contentedly against his arm, 
crooning her happiness. A curious, calculating 
look took the place of the tender brilliance of her 
eyes. 

“Unless father especially needs you at the fac¬ 
tory,” she said, carefully wording her delicate 
thoughts, “you can be a great help to me in 
my building. And I know enough about it now 
303 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


so that we can easily make a good living for— 
both of us.” An exquisite flush suffused her face. 

Duane and Jerrold exchanged electrical, ques¬ 
tioning glances. After all, Jerry was still very 
greatly in the dark about many things. Jerrold, 
with his unfailing generosity, stepped into the 
breach. 

“A good idea, Jerry,” he said. “I can’t say I 
consider Duane particularly born under a mechan¬ 
ical star. You shall have him. At a great sacri¬ 
fice on my part, of course. But I can only tell 
you in fairness that your young man will not be 
financially dependent on you and your houses. 
He had enough left of the wreckage to tide him 
over, and he thinks of going into Iowa real estate 
on his own account. Your interests will dove¬ 
tail very neatly along that line, won’t they?” 

Jerrold flushed with pleasure over the warmth 
of admiration for his effort that he met in the 
eyes of Duane and of Prudence, who whispered 
proudly that she couldn’t have done it better her¬ 
self. But Jerry turned great questioning eyes 
upon Duane. 


304 


OF DREAMS COME TRUE 


“Then you were not—completely—ruined, as 
the papers said ?” 

“Not—completely.” 

“Then why did you come here?” 

Duane laughed, held her to him, kissed her hair. 

“Then after all you really did—a little—” 
She began eagerly, unable to voice the hope that 
was almost a prayer within her heart. 

“Oh, Jerry, a very great deal,” he whispered. 

Jerry felt she could not possibly know a greater 
happiness than she felt in showing Duane her 
houses a few weeks later when he was out of the 
hospital and quite himself again. Under his 
interest, his admiration, his unbounded pride in 
her accomplishment, she glowed with a glad de¬ 
light. 

“It isn’t really like work,” she explained, lean¬ 
ing back against the banister of a circular stair¬ 
case which had cost her two hundred dollars more 
than her figures had allowed. “It is just like 
play, with something to show for it besides. Two 
things to show for it,—a sweet little place for 
305 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


some one to live and set an example to the neigh¬ 
borhood, in the first place.” She paused im¬ 
pressively. 

“And in the second place,” Duane encouraged 
her, reaching almost as by habit for her eager 
expressive young hands, his eyes feasting upon 
the radiance of her beauty. 

“And in the second place, the bank-account of 
Fairy Geraldine Harmer!” 

“Do you know what is going to sound the 
sweetest thing in the world one of these days?” 
he asked very softly, very soberly, drawing her 
to him. He whispered the rest. “Jerry Aller- 
ton.” 

Jerry flushed deeply, and her brilliant eyes gave 
him a dazzling glance beneath the cloudy lashes. 

“Come quickly, and see the rest of the house,” 
she begged. “The plasterers will strike for higher 
wages if they see too much of this.” 

One day Duane said he had a present for her, 
and Jerry with her effervescent eagerness un¬ 
wrapped the neat little tissue-bound package and 
drew out a tidy pile of Harmer Motor Company 
306 


OF DREAMS COME TRUE 


checks, made payable to one Duane Allerton, a 
weekly salary for services supposed to have been 
rendered. Jerry read the first, looked up with 
puzzled uncertainty, turned to the next, and the 
next. 

“My salary,” he explained laughingly, “as a 
mechanic—of your making. I kept them for you 
for a present.” 

Jerry showered him with the blue papers. “I 
will not have them,” she cried, her hands clasped 
forbiddingly behind her back. “It’s blood 
money!” 

Duane kissed her into gathering them up again, 
but she stoutly refused to accept any such gift at 
his hands. She said the past was dead and 
buried, she would have no part in fanning dead 
ashes to flame. And so they took them, together, 
to Jerrold. 

“You can’t really say I earned a salary,” Duane 
argued, “so suppose you take the money back and 
buy yourself—a nice, new, ornamental smoking- 
stand and maybe Mrs. Harmer will let you keep it 
under the bed.” 


307 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


Jerrold immediately washed his hands of the 
money and its disposal. He said by the laws of 
the state he was required to pay a salary to every 
employee, and if he took back those checks into 
his keeping the labor unions might get him for 
collusion, or something. 

“Give them to Prudence, why don’t you?” he 
suggested helpfully. 

Prudence told them very haughtily, that she 
for one did not own a slavish devotion to filthy 
lucre, and that as money for money’s own sake 
meant nothing to her, she would not have it. 

But in their dilemma, with her usual resource¬ 
fulness, it was she who thought of a way out. 

“Julia!” she cried triumphantly. 

“Julia!” Duane was surprised. 

“Julia?” Jerry was puzzled. 

But Jerrold nodded his head in quick apprecia¬ 
tion. 

“The family genius.” 

“Yes! Jerry started it herself. She said 
somebody has to feed the sacrificial fires of every 
genius, and she promised to see poor Julia 
308 


OF DREAMS COME TRUE 


through the conflagration. So now let’s start a 
fund for genius,—” 

“And save it for Julia!” Jerry cried triumph¬ 
antly. 

And so it was agreed. 

There were other brooding, harassed, middle 
western fathers who foresaw ill results for the 
entire prairie land in Jerry’s joyous romance. It 
was Irvin Weatherby who voiced this fear to Jer- 
rold. 

“I’m surprised you’d permit such a thing,” he 
said plaintively. “You’re setting a bad example 
for all the girls in town. You ought to talk to 
Jerry.” 

Jerrold did not understand. 

“Why, they’ll all be setting off to New York to 
study Art,” he protested. “The town’s full of it. 
Every place you go they talk of nothing else,— 
Art, Art, Art,—and they’re all dabbing at dishes 
and drawing figures on table-clothes and sprigging 
flowers on good mirrors. The place is alive 
with it.” 


309 


PRUDENCE’S DAUGHTER 


“That’s queer,” said Jerry’s father. “I can’t 
say I ever noticed we had such a passion for Art 
among us.” 

“Well, I reckon they figure to do as Jerry did. 
She didn’t bring home any Art to speak of, but 
she seems pretty well satisfied with what she did 
bring. And it’s catching, Harmer, it’s catching.” 

Now and then, not often, Jerry talked to 
Duane of Art. “Just once in a while,” she said 
softly, as they sat together in the early evening, 
and looked out on the wide lawn with the spring¬ 
ing grass of the early spring time, and the great 
maples just bursting into bud, “just once in a 
while, I’m sorry I proved such a failure. I wish 
I were really a painter,—just once. I’d like to 
paint my Iowa,—its great big maples, its ugly stiff 
houses, the mud in its streets and the blanket of 
smoke from its soft coal*,—I’d paint it all, but 
I’d make it rose and gold, and every one’s dreams 
come true.” 

THE END 


H 9 86 




























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